The White Rose And The Red
by Velocity Girl1980
Summary: King Henry VII has built a fragile peace following his defeat of Richard III at Bosworth. However, six years on, and a cultivated, handsome young man has popped out of thin air, who could be about to turn Henry's world upside down. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I wrote this story a long time ago as part of an RP challenge, and dug it out today. I made a few changes, and uploaded it on to another site. However, I think it will work here, too, even though it is not actually about "The Tudors" TV show. Plus I needed a break from writing about Anne Boleyn. Anyway, I hope people enjoy it. Usual disclaimers apply (I own nothing), and reviews are welcome.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter One: The Mystery Guest.<strong>

**May, 1491**

Queen Elizabeth sits, bathed in the broad afternoon sun that spills through the Privy Chamber windows, her head bent over her needlework. Her youngest sister, Catherine, watches intently as the delicate threads begin to form the bright pattern at the hem of the tiny, cloth of silver gown. She shifts her gaze over to Elizabeth's discreetly disguised belly, and tries to imagine the thing that grows in her. It's flesh knitting together in time to its' mother's stitches in the gown. The organs growing and spreading like the intricate patterns that are worked into the cloth. A small flicker of human existence flourishing in the silence of the royal womb.

"I think it will be a boy. A Duke of York," Catherine informed her sister, a knowing smile on her face.

Elizabeth put down the needle, and spread the gown out across her lap, regarding it closely before turning to look up at Catherine. She had deliberately kept the gown asexual, despite her nightly prayers for another boy to pad out the royal nursery. An heir, and a spare; especially in these troubled times.

"You're tempting fate, sister," She admonished, but the smile on her face betrayed her true feelings. "If God so wills it-"

Elizabeth's sentence was broken off by a bark of mirthless laugher coming from the outer chambers. Voices raised in anger, muffled by the closed doors, could he heard echoing down the galleries. Elizabeth recognised King Henry's among them, and allowed herself a silent sigh of exasperation. After an exchange of loaded looks with Catherine, she rose to her feet and smoothed down the front of her skirts, making herself every inch a Queen of England, despite her expanding middle.

"Wait here, Cate," She commanded as she swept through the Privy Chamber.

She paused as her hand gripped the handle of the door, and arranged her face into an expression of placid curiosity while bracing herself for the latest storm that had assailed her husband's Government. With a deep, steadying breath, she wrenched open the door, and found herself face to face with the entire Privy Council, as well as Henry himself.

"Your Grace!" Bishop Morton looked at her as though she were from another planet as he swept into a low bow of supplication. Richard Empson, and John Dudley quickly followed suit, but the others were too busy haranguing her husband to notice her. Elizabeth, after a polite nod in Morton's direction, turned to watch the others, her head cocked to one side.

"You must take this seriously!" Sir Richard Pole implored the King, his hands open before him like an angry beggar.

"God's death, Richard. I'll have that bastard upstart turning the spits in the kitchens alongside Simnel by the end of next week, just you see I do!" Henry snapped back at him.

"No, really, Your Grace, I don't think you understand-"

"Enough!" Henry's voice boomed across the whole chamber, he turned on his heels and began to storm off. It was only then he noticed Elizabeth's presence. His eyes widened in horror as he stopped dead in his tracks. "Why didn't you tell me the Queen had arrived?" He hissed at Morton who's face flushed a deep scarlet as he stammered an incoherent reply.

"Never mind that," Elizabeth spoke up as she moved to be by Henry's side. "Why are there arguments happening outside our private apartments? My ladies could hear you, and the children are not far away."

A murmur of hasty apologies, all waved away by the King who finally dismissed the lot of them. He glowered at their retreating backs, and waited until the last man closed the door of the outer gallery, before taking his wife over to the window embrasure.

"How much did you hear?" He asked as he helped her sit down, ever mindful of her condition.

"Almost nothing. Why? Whats' happening?" Elizabeth was getting worried, now. Her brow creased in concern, darkening her face as she scrutinised him closely. He just looked weary, but the way her avoided her gaze made her fear the worst. "Please, just tell me," She implored him.

"It's... Well..." Henry, seemingly rendered speechless by the latest turn of events, began pacing the floor in agitation. "It seems we have another Lambert Simnel on our hands."

"Another one!" Elizabeth groaned as she let her head fall back against the wood panelling behind her.

Elizabeth of York, the eldest daughter of King Edward IV, had had two brothers. The eldest was Edward Prince of Wales, and Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York, was the youngest. Following the death of their father in 1483, their uncle, Richard of Gloucester, had taken Edward to the Tower of London to prepare for his Coronation. Then, Richard too was taken to the Tower, so that the new King, Edward, would have some company during his wait. The two boys vanished from the Tower that summer. One day, they were seen playing together in the Tower gardens, the next, they weren't. It was as simple as that. There one minute, and gone the next. Her uncle, Richard of Gloucester declared them all bastards, and himself as the new King of England. Thus, he reigned until Henry Tudor poured on his parade two years later, in 1485. With her dear uncle Richard dead on the battle field, Elizabeth married Henry in 1486, and promptly provided him with an heir, Prince Arthur. The new Tudor Dynasty was set to flourish. But, then the pretenders began to show up, claiming to be the younger of the two vanished Princes, Richard of Shrewsbury.

First came Lambert Simnel. Trained by desperate Yorkists clinging to the old regime, to imitate Richard of Shrewsbury. But, Simnel could barely read and write his own name. A peasant boy plucked from obscurity, to be used and abused by others more powerful and learned than he could ever imagine. Naturally, the King had taken pity on the poor little fool, and instead of hanging him, gave him a job in the Palace kitchens. Now, Henry's lenient treatment of the fist pretender had given rise to another.

"Henry," Elizabeth reached out to stop her husband's pacing. "Look at me. Is Sir Richard right? Is this serious?"

Henry looked down at her, his shoulders slumped, a gesture of defeat.

"I don't know," He replied, his voice low. "But your aunt, Margaret, Duchess of Burgundy, has formally acknowledged him as her rightful nephew, and is now calling him King Richard IV of England."

"Oh, what would she know!" Elizabeth snapped as she leapt to her feet, momentarily disregarding her condition. Her stomach lurched, acrid bile rising up her throat, at the blatant exploitation of her brother's sacred memory. "She only met him once, when he was but a babe in arms!"

Henry sensed the danger, hastily crossed the room and wrapped his arms around her.

"I know," He soothed. "I know. I will not let this chancer destabilise the peace that we have all worked so hard to build."

Elizabeth pulled away, looking deep into his hazel eyes.

"Deal with him, Henry," She firmly stated. "No second chances, like with Simnel. Just deal with him. Do whatever it takes. Set your mother on him."

He smiled. He couldn't help it. His mother, the indomitable, formidable, Lady Margaret Beaufort, could make dog meat of the most accomplished of Knights in the Realm. It amused them both to think of the possibilities.

"In all seriousness, Henry," Elizabeth added after composing herself. "Find out who he is, and nip this in the bud. The civil wars are over. Make sure him, and his puppeteers know that."

* * *

><p>The night closed in like a spreading ink stain. Once Elizabeth concluded her nightly prayers, her ladies prepared her for bed. Her English hood replaced with a simple linen coif. Her heavy gowns swapped for a fine silk shift. Once safely inserted between the cool cotton sheets, her army of ladies in waiting filed silently from the chamber. The candles extinguished, but the fire blazing in the hearth. She allowed herself to relax against the feather mattress that conformed itself to the ever-changing contours of her body with ease.<p>

Alone, she could allow her mind to freely wander into the past. Sleeplessness afforded her luxury of reflection. She turned her face to the mullioned windows, and looked out at the pale crescent moon that hung in the skies. London stretched out below it. The citizens, war weary, and enjoying the first fruits of peace, sleep on. Blissfully unaware of the approaching storm, the city in untroubled this night. But Elizabeth knows, at the drop of a hat, they will take up arms to defend the new King. They'd already done it once before, and if any pretender wants to take the Tudor crown, it will be the Londoners who they must first get on side.

She closed her eyes, and thought of her brothers. Edward was twelve. Richard was nine. Just children. Dead for eight years, or thereabouts, now. Elizabeth thinks on. Just beyond the river, the Tower sits. Within those granite grey walls, she knows, the truth lies hidden and buried in an unmarked grave.


	2. The Dukes of York

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the reviews, I really appreciate it! Just a note on accuracy here. I have referred to primary sources, and reliable accounts from respected historians for the names of the men who were involved in these plots, (especially from Professor G.R Elton's rather scathing account of events). As such, I am filling in a lot of blanks, and using a lot of conjecture. However, I'm making my guesses as educated as possible. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own nothing. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Two: The Duke of York.<strong>

Alone in the sunlit Solar of Baynards' Castle, Lady Margaret Beaufort sat with her favourite hunting hound nuzzling her slippered feet, as she read the letter from the King and Queen of Spain. One hand lazily scratched the beast's ears as her eyes glided over the immaculately scripted letter, which she gripped with her free hand, her knuckles whitening as she reached the end. Finally, as she sat back in her chair, a small smile of triumph spread across her gaunt face.

Lady Margaret had never seriously expected Isabella and Ferdinand to agree to this. But then, she had never expected her son to become King of England, either. Just like she had never expected to survive the very act of bringing him into the world. Ever since the age of just thirteen, Lady Margaret had been doing that which was least expected of her. By now, she reasons to herself, she should be getting used to it. Now, it seems, this tiny Island is set to gain an alliance with the strongest of all European nations, Spain.

She turns her slate grey eye on to the dog now resting his shaggy head on her foot, and beams at him. "Be reasonable," She whispers, leaning down to give his ears another leisurely scratch. "By demanding the impossible."

Lady Margaret picked up the letter once again, and read over the last few lines. The latest Pretender to her son's Crown was mentioned. Naturally, Isabella and Ferdinand were reluctant to betrothe the Infanta to a Prince of Wales who could be usurped at any moment. The news of him had spread like a rash. Yorkists, living in self-imposed exile on the Continent, were flocking to see him. She's even over-heard her maids gossiping about him. About his Courtly manner, and his intimate knowledge of King Edward IV's Court, and about the birthmarks that were said to be exactly the same as Richard of Shrewsbury's.

With a small sigh, Margaret levered herself out of her fireside chair and drained the remainder of her wine. She called for her travelling cloak to be fetched, and her barge to be made ready. Like her son, she had laughed when the Pretender first appeared, and claimed to be the lost prince, Richard of Shrewsbury. But that joke isn't funny any more. He needed to be dealt with.

* * *

><p>The sultry summer evening nestled in comfortably around Greenwich Palace. All along the meandering Thames, couples walked with their arms linked, watching the burning sunset smother the city in a rich red haze. Set back from the dirt of the City, the air at Greenwich was heavy with wood smoke, and summer flowers, carried on the gentle breeze that swept the earth. As the month of June progressed, the weather grew hotter and Queen Elizabeth grew bigger as she was shut away in her confinement.<p>

Within the Royal Apartments, King Henry watched the shadows lengthened across the immaculately manicured lawns of the Palace. Behind him, a bevy of Grooms and Servants stood poised, as taut as bow strings, ready to snap into life at the click of the King's fingers. The loaded silence was split by the creaking of the Privy Chamber door, around which Sir Robert Clifford eased himself before sinking into a low bow.

"Sir Robert!" The King greeted him as he turned from the window to regard his old friend. "Rise, please. Take a seat, we're just waiting for the Queen Mother."

"Your Grace, I've been given another message to convey," Sir Robert explained as he settled into the proffered seat. "Her Grace, the Queen, is in now in labour."

Clifford watched the King closely as he absorbed the news. Henry responded with something between a sigh of relief, and joyful laughter. He'd known it was coming, of course, but every time it happened, the news of his impending fatherhood always seemed to knock the wind out of his lungs.

"God willing, a Duke of York," Clifford added, a knowing smile on his face. "Which brings us neatly around to my other reason for being here. I guess that you wanted to see me about our friend in Burgundy? The Pretender?"

Henry's demeanour changed at once. He composed himself, and immediately the worry returned. What had started out as a joke, had quickly turned serious, and the pretender seemed to be gathering supporters left, right, and centre. His timing was horrendous.

"As soon as my mother got here, she told me that Isabella and Ferdinand are keen for the marriage between Prince Arthur, and the Infanta Catherine, to go ahead. They're sending their ambassador over to negotiate the terms right away," Henry explained, and Clifford leaned forwards in his seat, hanging on every word, but unable to second guess where the King was leading him. "However, given the instability of the Crown over the last few … decades … and now with a fresh Pretender on the horizon, things could get complicated."

"Naturally," Clifford replied thoughtfully. "They don't want to waste their precious Infanta on an unstable country who's regime could change any minute."

"Exactly," Henry concurred with a sigh. "And I can't very well just finish him off. That would fuel my enemies even further!"

"But, no one is taking him seriously, surely? We laughed. Everyone laughed when he first rolled up in Cork and dazzled the Irish," Cliffored could barely keep the amusement out of his voice. "Who are these supporters? Does he have many?"

"No, he doesn't have supporters. But I have enemies, and thats' close enough. Enemies who're growing increasingly desperate, and resorting to evermore desperate measures to get me off the throne," Henry sprang back up to his feet. The joy of the Queen's labour quite vanished from his manner, now, as he paced before the empty hearth. "There can be room for only one Duke of York, and if Elizabeth delivers a son tonight, that will only up the ante."

Henry pauses, looked into the empty fire grate, and rubbed at his chin as he mulled over his darkest fears. "This pretender is gathering supporters here, in England. At first, it was the exiles. But his support base is spreading."

Henry glanced over his shoulder to gage Clifford's reaction. The other man merely looked back at the King, his brow creased in concern. At that moment, the door opened again, and Sir Thomas Stanley, the Lord Chamberlain appeared.

"Your Grace," His voice carried easily across the darkening Privy Chamber. "Her Grace, Margaret Beaufort, Countess of Richmond here to see you."

"Show her in," Henry commanded. His shoulders sagged with relief and he set off towards the door to greet his mother as her diminutive form came into view.

"Henry!" She stood up on her tip toes to kiss him on both cheeks, and still he had to stoop for her to reach him. "Excellent news about the Queen, I pray God sends us a Duke of York."

A Groom produced another chair for Lady Margaret, setting it before the hearth, between Henry's and Clifford's. As Lady Margaret's' eye alights upon Sir Robert, she turns to Henry.

"Sir Robert has been informed of the situation?"

"He has been told the situation, but not the plan."

"The plan, Your Grace?" Clifford asks, trying not to sound abrasive, but cocking his head in a politely quizzical expression.

For a moment, neither Henry nor Margaret made to inform Clifford any further. The beeswax candles were lit up, and wine was procured before the meeting progressed any further. As soon as the servants had retreated back to the shadows of the Chamber, Henry finally spoke up again.

"We need you to go to Burgundy, and make contact with the Pretender. Tell him what a usurping bastard I am, and how I am laying the Kingdom to waste with my greed and profligacy, and that you realise that he is the true King of England."

"What?" Clifford's eyes widened in alarm as his gaze flickered between the King and the Queen Mother. "You mean you want me to spy for you?"

"Basically, yes," Margaret replied, matter of factly. "Also, while you're there, find out everything you can. Every scrap of gossip and information you can on this creature. I want to know who he really is."

"If he is gaining support here in England, then I want to know who," Henry interjected, fixing Clifford with a hard stare. "If he is planning an invasion, and the French are backing him up, then I need to be prepared."

"Surely to God it won't-"

"It already has!" Margaret cut across Clifford. "Why else has he been building up support here, and all over Europe. Next thing you know, the Scots will be getting involved, and we'll be surrounded by our enemies."

All three of them fell silent, as they each regarded the other in the flickering candlelight light of the Privy Chamber. The silence swelled, blotting out the restive shuffling of the grooms who lined the walls, and the impatient sighs of the Queen Mother. Finally, Clifford cleared his throat.

"Very well," He spoke firmly, a note of the resolute in his voice. "I shall do it."

* * *

><p>The Queen's confinement chamber had erupted into activity as soon as her first contractions had begun. The fire blazed, despite the summer heat, and the windows remained blocked. All around Queen Elizabeth's bed hung tapestries of pleasant sportive pass times, and small mindless animals. Nothing that would scare the babe when it makes its' entrance into the world. The mind numbing banality of it made the pains of her labour all the worse. Every time her belly felt like it was caving in on itself, Elizabeth wanted to tear down those hangings and scream obscenities at the top of her voice.<p>

Even after just a few short hours, Elizabeth felt drained of every ounce of strength that she had ever possessed. She lay flat against the feather mattress, gasping for breath as her body heaved of it's own volition. Helpless against the waves of pain that continually washed over her, she could do no more than whimper feebly as each contraction gripped her.

"Nearly there, Your Grace," Catherine, her youngest sister, had been left ashen faced just from watching the Queen's ordeal. She wrung out a damp, cool cloth and pressed it against Elizabeth's burning brow to wipe the sweat that dripped into her eyes, and made her vision blur.

"I … I can't.." Elizabeth's voice had been left hoarse from screaming through her early labour pains.

"Hang on to this," She tugged at one of the ropes that had been tied to the beam over the bed, "and just give one more great push. I know you can do this, Elizabeth."

Without waiting for an answer, Catherine climbed up on to the bed behind the Queen, and supported her back as she finally summoned the strength to grip the rope. After a few short, rasping breaths, Elizabeth screamed out, a long, thin piercing scream that split the air and made the surrounding women wince. Elizabeth held the note of her scream for what seemed an eternity, before, with a wet rush of blood and mucus, the babe slid with ease into the open hands of Catherine of York.

Breathless, drained, and ashen grey, Elizabeth collapsed back against the mattress. The acrid taste of bile rose at the back of her raw throat, making her nauseous. Her narrow ribs heaved as she fought to regain control of her breathing. But, over it all, all she could hear, all she really noticed was the catlike mewling of her newborn.

"What... What is it?" She gasped, twisting her head to one side, trying to catch sight of the babe between the women who now surrounded it. All she could see was a small patch of scrubbed pink flesh on a tiny body. "Let me see!" She cried out as hard as she could. "Give me my baby."

* * *

><p>"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace," The physician looked between King Henry and Lady Margaret almost apologetically. "But Her Grace is delivered of a healthy baby boy."<p>

King Henry dropped the papers he was scrutinising and choked on the wine he'd just swallowed. His hacking coughs echoed around the Privy Chamber, as Lady Margaret's face lit up in a broad smile that reached from one ear to the next. Absent mindedly, she reached over and rubbed her son's back, easing his coughing fit.

"A Duke of York," She whispered, sounding almost awestruck. "A real Duke of York, this time."

"The Queen!" Henry yelped, once he'd recovered himself. "How is the Queen? Is she well?"

"Her Grace had a difficult labour, but is recovering well, Your Grace," The physician replied smoothly. "No sign of childbed fever, Sire."

"Inform my Lord Chamberlain, William Stanley. Send out word that a Prince has been born!"

At his side, Lady Margaret opens a small book of hours, and starts rifling through the pages, coming to rest on June, and holds her hand out for a quill.

"The twenty-seventh of June," She whispers under her breath as she jots the date and the event down. "Prince Henry born, here at Greenwich Palace."

King Henry glanced sharply at his mother, her murmured words seeming to snap him out of a trance. "No, mother. Its' after midnight. Its' the twenty-eighth, now." She crosses it out, leaving a great black blot on her book of hours, before correcting the date. The time hardly matters, he is only the second son. More than likely, he will be bound for the Church. Archbishop of Canterbury, if he is lucky.

* * *

><p>Days passed by. The sun grew hotter in the summer skies, and life continued. But, for just a few precious, stolen moments, King Henry and Queen Elizabeth can pretend that everything is normal. He breaks the rules of confinement, and visits his wife and child a mere forty-eight hours after the birth. Together, they lie side by side on the great bed, and gaze at the tiny baby who writhes within his swaddling. His lungs are strong, and his appetite insatiable. For just a few hours, they can wrap themselves in a bubble of normality.<p>

"It seems that mother has already named him Henry," The King explains apologetically. Elizabeth looks up at him with her clear blue eyes.

"It is perfect," She replies, a smile teasing her rosebud lips. "Prince Harry," She sighs as she looks back down at him.

"If he becomes King, he will be Henry the eighth," Henry presses home his point. With the naming of Prince Arthur, they had made a deliberate statement. It was something special.

"None of that matters," Elizabeth counters, still gazing down at the babe in her arms. Small tufts of auburn hair stick out from beneath his cap. When he opens his eyes, he looks up at his parents with keen, piercing blue eyes. "All that matters is, that we make his future as safe, and secure as we can."

"I am trying, Elizabeth," Henry couldn't quite keep the hurt tone of his voice down.

"Henry, find them," She stated, firmly. "Find my brother's bodies, and end this once and for all."


	3. The Fate Of The Nation

**Author's Note:** Thank you to my loyal reviewers, your input is invaluable! As ever, the usual disclaimers apply here, I own nothing. I hope my readers continue to enjoy the story, and please read and review. Thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three: The Fate Of The Nation.<strong>

The journey to Burgundy was a long one for Sir Robert Clifford. The crossing to France had been a blessing. The flat sea had sparkled in the summer sunshine as the boat glided almost effortlessly across the Narrow Sea to Calais. But from there, it was on horseback across the whole of France, travelling further and further south, to the home of the Duchess of Burgundy. It was she who was playing hostess to the latest Pretender to the English crown.

Clifford lodged over night in Taverns, and spent as much of his time of rest in ale-houses, picking up snippets of gossip to report back to the King. All along the route, they spoke of the Pretender with awe. Ignorant Peasant folk even seemed to have met him, and described him in terms that conjured up a reborn messiah. They spoke of an aura, of a magnetic pull that drew people to him, like moths to a flame. They made him sound more than human. More than a King. No one, it seemed, disputed his claims to be the rightful King of England, Richard IV.

As Sir Robert swilled the dregs of his ale in the pewter cup in his hands, he couldn't help but feel curious about the Pretender. He dismissed the superlative ramblings of Peasant folk, people who were all too easily beguiled by glamorous clothes and a neat trim to the hair. But, he'd noticed, that even the merchants, the guildsmen and professionals who'd been in his presence were impressed. Sir Robert swallowed the rest of his warm, flat ale and settled his bills for the night he'd spent in the Tavern on the Burgundian border, before saddling up for the final leg of his journey to the Duchess's Court. He set off, anticipation fluttering in his belly, for all of his reservations about his task.

Margaret of Burgundy's Presence Chamber was broad, draughty and lighted only by the failing sunlight that slanted through the long, stained glass windows. He could just make out her silhouette, enthroned on a dais, and another, broader silhouette beside her. The Pretender, the Duchess's so-called nephew. Sir Robert bowed low, and the silence was punctuated by the rustle of stiff linen skirts sweeping the ground as she walked over to greet him.

"Sir Robert," Her voice was deep, and he could sense her standing over him, her hand outstretched, and he kissed it. The other person in the room remained seated on dais.

"Your Grace," Sir Robert greeted the Duchess formally before standing back up again. "My conscience compelled me to take leave of Henry Tudor's Court, and come straight to you. I need to know if the rumours are true."

He paused, looking into the old Dowager Duchess's face, trying to second guess what was running through her mind. But all that was there was a faint, polite smile. She gestured with one hand to an empty seat up on the dais.

"Come and see for yourself," She replied flatly. The man up on the dais rose to his feet, and stepped into a pool of sunlight. Tall, blond haired, and well built. Muscular, and young. He cut an impressive figure. Remembering his brief, Sir Robert dipped into a low bow, as though he were being presented to a real King of England.

"Come closer, so I can see you," The man commanded imperiously. Clifford obeyed at once. Without fully rising from his bow, he crept forwards a few paces. "You're one of Henry's friends, are you not?"

"That is true, I admit it freely," Clifford replies, not a waver of doubt in his voice. "However, I serve the correct and natural order, above all things. If these rumours are true, and you are one of the lost Princes, then my fealty would, naturally, be to you."

Although he couldn't see them, Sir Robert could sense the exchange of looks. The silent signals passed between them. The mutual, non-verbal, understanding they reached, and he is beckoned over to sit in the empty third chair set up on the dais. A servant is commanded to light the torches that are set in brackets along the walls of the Chamber, and finally, they can all see each other properly for the first time since Robert Clifford's arrival. They fixed each other with appraising looks. The Pretender was handsome. Just as handsome as Clifford had been led to believe. His graceful demeanour, his elegant mannerisms, and refined speech combined confirm that this is no mere peasant puppet like Lambert Simnel.

"Tell Sir Robert what happened the night your brother, the King, was killed," The Duchess prompts him, gesturing to the man. She turns to Sir Robert, and warns: "The details are harrowing, my Lord. But King Richard here speaks the truth as God knows it." She speaks with all earnestness.

"Please, Your Grace, it would help a great deal if I knew what happened on that night," Sir Robert encourages the Pretender, who leaned forwards in a confidential manner before telling his story.

"I am the youngest son of King Edward IV of England," The Pretender explained. "I was taken to the Tower of London by my Uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester. I joined my brother who'd been lodged there since May, 1483-"

"Forgive my interruption, but when exactly did you arrive at the Tower?" Sir Robert asked.

"In June of that same year," The Pretender replied without hesitation. "I had been with my mother and sisters in Sanctuary at Westminster Abbey, up until that point. Richard came in person, and took me away with him by barge."

Clifford merely nods, making a note of how well trained the Pretender sounded. He was like a school child, reciting a text learned by rote, straight out of a text book.

"So, you joined King Edward V, your older brother, in the Tower. What happened then?"

The Pretender paused, as though gathering his thoughts, and a frown darkened the expression in his clear blue eyes. For the first time, it seemed, he was selecting his words, picking his answers, giving the appearance of trauma. He swallowed hard, and picked up his story.

"It was in early August of 1483 that Sir James Tyrell, the Lieutenant of the Tower, came to us one night. He unlocked the door, but remained outside. I was awake, but pretending to be asleep, you see. I thought that he would be displeased to see me still awake at that hour. But, I could just see him if I half opened my eyes. He spoke to another person, who I could not see. Their voices were muffled, but their conversation was short, anyway. I heard footsteps against the concrete floor. I could hear the second man's boots crunching against the dried rushes that lined the floor of our chamber. He crossed the room to Edward's bed, and I heard a commotion. I didn't dare to look around, or open my eyes. I was afraid … " The Pretender paused, brow furrowed in a deep frown as his eyes fixed on the floor at his feet. … "I had never been so afraid."

His words dropped into a swell of silence. The Duchess shook her head sadly, but made no effort to speak. She was meticulous in letting the Pretender do all the talking. Sir Robert scrutinised them both carefully, looking for signs, omens, anything that could give some clue of the Pretender's true identity. Finding nothing, he took a deep, steadying breath, and asked another question that had begun to weigh heavily on his mind.

"How did you escape? You say Sir James Tyrell let a stranger into your room, and that that person killed your brother. What happened next?"

"I dropped the pretence of sleep at once, and sat up. I saw my brother's body lying lifeless and limp against the mattress, he was still twisted up in the bedsheets. His lips were blue with asphyxiation, and I could tell immediately that he was dead. I tried to scream, but it was thought the breath was knocked out of me. I opened my mouth, but no sound would come. I stared at the murderer, and he looked back at me from across the room, and just pressed his fingers to his lips, a signal for me to be silent, not that I was making any noise, but I was trying to," The Pretender paused, and composed himself as his voice had begun to crack with suppressed emotions. "He stole across the room, to my bedside, and just told me that he'd had orders to spare me. He didn't say from who, and I asked no questions."

Sir Robert looked from the Pretender to the Duchess, and back again. The Pretender swept the feathered cap from his head, and began massaging the bridge of his nose, obscuring tears that had begun to well in his eyes.

"Your Grace, forgive me," Sir Robert said. "I know how difficult this must be for you. King Edward was your brother, and his fate so tragic-"

"Tell me, how is my sister?" The Pretender cut him off, suddenly. "I know that she was forced into a marriage to that tyrant usurper. I fear for her, Sir Robert. I fear he has poisoned her mind against me, and against my whole family."

Sir Robert made no immediate reply. Instead, he fixed the Pretender with a shrewd, calculating look as he weighed up his options for a reply. At length, he spoke again.

"I think that if Queen Elizabeth saw you as I have seen you, heard you speak of that terrible night as I have, then she will see that you're the true and rightful King Richard IV." His voice was firm, and a flicker of a smile played at his lips. "I know people close to them, Your Grace. I could get information for you-"

"Oh! There's no need, Sir Robert." It was the Duchess who cut him off. Sir Robert snapped his gaze over to her. The smile on her face revealed a row of yellowing, uneven teeth. "We have friends in the English Court, already. One is close to the usurper. About as close as you can get!"

Sir Robert knew better than to ask for names at this early stage. If he did that, it would be as good as an open admission of his true intentions. But the smug, knowing look that the other two shared between themselves made his heart jump. It made him want to wring the details from their bodies.

"My aunt is right," The Pretender chirrups happily, an altogether new twinkle in his eye. "King Henry won't know what has hit him, when I land in England, and certain people turn out to be not quite as he thought them to be."

"You will stay with us, won't you Sir Robert?" The Duchess asked, her voice strangely plaintive. "You'll be much better cared for her, than back at that usurper's Palace. My nephew and I get lonely here."

"It would be an honour, Your Grace," Sir Robert replied, smiling benevolently. "Although, I fear I have already asked too many questions of His Grace, the King of England. If it is all right with you, I shall retire for the night."

The Pretender lifted his head from his hands, his eyes glittering in the torchlight, as he seemed to search through an imaginary crowd of people in front of him. But, Sir Robert finally saw what he was looking at. A gaggle of servants were discreetly tucked away in a partially obscured ante-chamber. With an imperious wave of the Pretender's hand, they sprung stealthily into action, and escorted Sir Robert from the Presence Chamber, to his new lodgings within the Palace. Once alone, he takes a quill and some parchment from his trunk, and reports every word that was exchanged at his first meeting with the phoney prince.

* * *

><p>King Henry gnawed absent mindedly at the heel of bread in his hands, while his eyes remained fixed on the letter from Sir Robert. Beside him, Queen Elizabeth sat with Prince Henry on her knee. The Prince had grown fast, and gotten stronger seemingly by the hour. Elizabeth, and her sister, Catherine cooed happily over the Prince, seemingly oblivious the King's darkening mood. Princess Margaret finished her breakfast, and crossed herself, making Lady Margaret Beaufort sigh happily. Her namesake Princess had always been her favourite grand child. Opposite Princess Margaret, sat Prince Arthur. A placid, unprepossessing child; he quietly waited for someone to notice that he'd finished, and was waiting to be taken back to his nursery, where he, Margaret and their aunt Catherine would all play together.<p>

Elizabeth fell silent as she looked up at her husband. She saw the frown that darkened his complexion, the down-turned corners of his mouth as he gripped the letter in his trembling hand. With a quick glance about the room, Elizabeth turns to her sister.

"Perhaps, Lady Catherine, it would be good for you to take the little ones to their nursery now?" She pointedly suggests as she deposits a wriggling Prince Henry into Catherine's arms. Margaret and Arthur line up to kiss their parents goodbye, before allowing themselves to be led away by their aunt.

Catherine, with Prince Henry secure in her arms, paused in the door, and glanced back at Queen Elizabeth. She gave her sister a small nod of encouragement. A gesture of good luck, before leading the children to their nursery. Elizabeth watched them disappear down the gallery, wishing more than anything that their lives could just be normal. Although she herself had never had normality, and had no real feel for what it was like, she knew that she wanted it for her children. Growing up as the daughter of a King, Elizabeth had wanted for nothing, except that ever elusive normality. She gives herself a small shake, and turns back to face Henry as Lady Margaret moves to sit by his side.

"Darling, what news is there?"

Henry's jaw dropped, as though he was going to speak, but words had suddenly failed him. Instead, he flattened out the parchment letter on the surface of the breakfast table, shoving aside a decanter of small beer as he did so. Both Margaret and Elizabeth leaned to the side to read curiously.

"He called me his sister!" Elizabeth shuddered at the thought of it. "Oh, and he's been worried about me!"

"We have a turncoat amongst us," Lady Margaret intoned gravely, not responding to Elizabeth's proclamations.

Henry and Elizabeth's eyes meet across the table. He won't say anything to her, but Elizabeth knows what he is thinking. It is one of her relatives. One of her disgruntled clan, upsetting the fragile peace, yet again. Henry drops his gaze to the crumbs on the linen table cloth.

"Thats' not the worst of it," He said. "What about this invasion he's planning? We knew there were spies here. It's this damn invasion I am worried about."

"We'll see him coming from miles away," Elizabeth replied. "We'll have guards posted out to the Southern coast. His fleet won't get within a mile of our coast."

"Mine did when I landed in England before Bosworth!"

"Elizabeth has a point, Henry," Lady Margaret interjects over them both. "Listen. Give him the opportunity to land. Hand it to him on a plate, and lead him into a trap."

"What kind of trap?" Henry asked, his scepticism heavy in his voice.

"We will send out word that you have ridden north, to Scotland, and you'll be away for months. It is feasible, because of the negotiations for Princess Margaret's marriage. This Pretender will think that England is vulnerable with you safely out of the way in Scotland. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to land," Margaret explained.

"What if he doesn't?" Elizabeth asked. "We're leaving too much to chance."

"We can leak the information to the Pretender through Sir Robert," Henry suggested.

"Exactly. Write back to Sir Robert immediately, and tell him the plan. Make sure to God that the letter gets delivered to him, and him alone. It's our best chance."

"Instead of Scotland, go to Wales, and muster the biggest army that you can," Elizabeth added, leaning in closer to her husband, and giving his hand a squeeze for reassurance.

"London will come out for you, too," Lady Margaret chimes in, a smile on her face now. "We can get him."

"Sir James Tyrell is still alive, too," Elizabeth piped up. "Bring him in, Henry! He can help us."

Henry, bombarded with suggestions, pushed his chair back and began to pace the Privy Chamber floor. Not even mid-morning, and already the Pretender was causing him headaches.

"Very well. Send Sir Thomas Stanley out with the warrant for his arrest," Henry commands a nearby servant. Thomas Stanley, younger brother of the King's step-father William Stanley, Earl of Derby, had been Henry's general man of business ever since Bosworth. If it had not been for the Stanley's changing sides at the last minute, at Bosworth, Henry would never have won. He would never have been King. "And tell him to find out how the search of the Tower is going. I need progress reports, immediately!"

* * *

><p>The leaves on the trees had curled, golden brown, at the edges. They fell, drifting to the earth, buffeted on the chill winds that swept across the land, as they ushered in the first signs of autumn. Another year almost gone. Another battle, yet to be won. It was, all in all, just another year in the life of the Tudor family. But that night, as they were readied for bed by their army of servants, the King and Queen spoke that little bit more softly to each other. When they lay, side by side, between the warmed linen sheets, they held each other that little bit more tenderly. Because now, gnawing at the backs of their minds, was the knowledge that once again, Henry must ride out to defend his kingdom.<p>

"Remember what you promised me, Henry," Elizabeth whispers into the darkness. "No second chances. Find him, and stop him."

Henry's hand slid down her body, coming to rest on the curve of her hip as she lay face to face with him. The moonlight cast a pale glow on her exposed skin. With his free hand, he tucked the loose strands of blond hair from her face, as he studied the way the moonlight made it silver. Silver, like an old lady. She was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him, though. He smiled, and she wondered why.

"I will, I promise," He assured her. "But, we need the truth, and for that I want him taken alive. I want this settled as much as you."

He silenced her protests with a kiss. Their arms folded around each other, as their bodies pressed closer, pressing the worries clean out of their heads. Deeper and deeper they kiss.

"I know, Henry," She sighs as they pull away again as their limbs tangle themselves around each other. She yearned for him now, with an urgency more intense than any care of the State. They could all wait, because moments like these never do.


	4. Dear Master Osbeck

**Author's Note:** Thank you very much for the reviews, they are all greatly appreciated. Hopefully, people will continue to enjoy the story. Please read and review, thank you again.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: Dear Master Osbeck.<strong>

Sir Robert Clifford watched as a large greyhound chewed at one of Margaret of Burgundy's finest tapestries, and smiled. The threads unravelled, twining themselves around the beast's teeth as it's jaws worked furiously at the fine fabrics. It whiled away the time Clifford spent waiting for the Duchess and the Pretender to grant him his audience quite nicely. Not until he heard the sound of approaching footsteps from the Outer Gallery did he dash across the room, and pretend to be wresting the animal away from the woven work of art that hung on the wall.

'Your Grace!' Sir Robert cried, he straddled the dog, it's head now between his knees, his hand clamped over it's jaws. "Your dog … this beautiful tapestry." He shot the Duchess an helplessly apologetic look as he gestured to the ruins that now hung limply on the wall. Margaret's face contorted painfully at the sight of the carnage, but the Pretender at her side merely looked mildly amused.

'Give him here!' She snapped as she crossed the room, seizing the beast by its' tough leather collar and marching him out of the room. Margaret exited, and left nothing but a cloud of rose water scent behind her, and her Pretender nephew.

The two men looked at each other from across the room for a moment, before breaking the silence with a casual quip at the dog's expense. Sir Robert, however, was much keener to move on to other business in the merciful absence of the Duchess.

'I hear that the King of France has come up with the goods for Your Grace,' He enquired as they settled themselves into the two seats on either side of the Duchess's up on the dais.

'Ships, money, and men,' The Pretender gratifyingly listed them off, holding up his long, slender fingers as he did so.

'You know that King Henry will be riding north to Scotland. His daughter, Margaret, is to marry the Scots' King, James,' Clifford explained. 'England will not be left entirely unguarded, naturally, but they will be extremely vulnerable while Henry is in Scotland.'

The Pretender weighed up Clifford's words carefully, like a mathematical problem, before making any reply.

'If we give him a few weeks to get well out of London, by the time we set sail and reach the English coast, he should have arrived in Scotland. How long will it take for a messenger to then reach Henry in Scotland to inform him of my arrival? Maybe another two weeks, perhaps even a month?'

'He doesn't have a hope, Your Grace,' Clifford assures him confidently. 'You will land on the Kent coast while he is in Edinburgh. The only real problem will be capturing him after his defeat.'

The Pretender's expression hardened as though he'd never really paid much thought to the disposal of his nemesis. Sir Robert wondered if the Pretender thought that invading a country was as easy as entering a brothel. Just smile nicely, pay your money, and have your own way; all pleasure and no pain.

'He will have to be dealt with,' Clifford insists. 'You have planned for that, haven't you?'

'Of course!' The Pretender snaps back impatiently. 'But, I needn't get blood on my own hands. Like I said, I have friends inside the English Court, inside Henry's inner circle-'

'Ones that will commit regicide, if necessary?' Sir Robert's stomach lurched, but he dissembled his gut reaction, one of sheer horror, and arranged his face accordingly.

'If it comes to it,' The Pretender waved his hand dismissively, as though Henry Tudor were just an irritating fly that needed swatting. 'I'll just make sure that the best of my spies gets to Scotland, and does the deed for me.'

'Only the most trusted of Tudor's supporters will know where to reach him,' Sir Robert explained. 'I don't think you understand. Not even those with the slightest connection to the Yorkist faction-'

'No, Sir Robert, its' you that doesn't understand,' The Pretender smiled ingratiatingly. 'My most important informant fought alongside the usurper at Bosworth. Henry trusts this man with his life.'

Footprints in sand. Small clues that will soon vanish. But still Sir Robert asks no more questions about the spy, for now. All he can do, is report back to the King, and pray to all the saints in heaven that the report reaches the King before he leaves London.

Behind them, the doors the Presence Chamber burst open once more, and the Duchess appears with her skirts crumpled, and her hair falling in iron grey tresses from beneath her hood. Her face was flushed, and her eyes shone with her exertions.

'That damn brute will have to be disposed of,' She muttered furiously under her breath as she bustled over to join them on the dais. 'A blade to the throat ought to do it. Be over in seconds.'

'Sir Robert and I were just discussing that very issue, Aunt Margaret,' The Pretender informed her casually. Once again, Sir Robert is left with the impression that King Henry's life, and the lives of others, mean little to these two plotters. The fate of an entire nation, to them, is little more than a game of chequers.

'God's death yes, I mean, just look what he's done to my damn tapestry!' She points at the tattered fabrics still hung on the wall.

'Oh, you meant the dog!' The Pretender exclaimed, his eyes twinkling brightly with amusement. 'No, I thought you meant Henry Tudor.'

Margaret paused, and pondered the matter thoughtfully for a moment: 'Well, him too, of course. Goes without saying.'

With a clap of Duchess's hands, the whole room burst into activity. Servants appeared, seemingly from nowhere, as cloaks were fetched, and horses brought around the front of the Palace. The Pretender and the Duchess rose to their feet as their Grooms swathed them in fur lined cloaks.

'Are you sure that you will not be joining us for our hunting trip?' The Pretender asked, looking down at Sir Robert, where he still remained seated on the dais.

'I may ride out later,' Clifford replied. He intended to do no such thing. 'I really should be making plans for the invasion, though.'

'Very well, then,' The Duchess replied, cutting off her "nephew". 'By the way, Sir Robert, why is that you wished to see me?'

'No matter, Your Grace, it can wait until after the hunting party,' He answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. 'I would not want to burden you before such an even.'

Sir Robert watched as they all bustled out, chatting animatedly to one another; the Pretender exchanged easy banter with the Grooms and household servants. The entire household was going to ride out on a hunting expedition, one last outing before the Pretender sets sail for England, to reclaim his usurped crown. They would be gone for three days, and three nights, and there was just a skeleton staff remaining to wait on Clifford, and see to the safety of the house. Perfect for some long delayed investigative research that Clifford had, after all, been sent here to do to begin with.

He moved across the great bay windows and watched the vast train of people, all riding out under the Plantagenet banners, wend its' way southwards. As the last stragglers vanished into the heat haze and wood smoke that lingered in wisps across the flat, fertile land, Sir Robert allowed himself a sigh of relief.

* * *

><p>King Henry paced restlessly across the Presence Chamber floor. The dried rushes crunched beneath his boots, and the hounds, as though sensing their master's pensiveness, skulked in the shadows of the cavernous chamber. Any minute now, and the Spanish Ambassador would arrive. Even Queen Elizabeth seemed on edge. Her hands folded in her lap, her face twisted into a fixed smile as she sat stiffly on the throne in the centre of the dais. To her right, was Henry's vacant throne. To the left of the vacant throne, sat Margaret Beaufort. Only she looked relaxed.<p>

'Henry, sit down,' She advised. "Ambassadors are notorious for arriving at the least opportunistic moments in a King's life. Dr De Puebla will be expecting it. We don't want to disappoint."

'The Queen Mother is right, Henry,' Elizabeth adds with a nod to her mother-in-law. "You're just making the rest of us nervous."

Henry turned to face the two women, who looked back at him as though daring him to disagree. With a shrug of his shoulders, he takes his place in the centre of the two ladies, and lets the silence descend on them like a shroud of lead, once again.

Finally, however, after what seemed to have been an interminable wait, Sir William Stanley, Henry's Chamberlain appeared around the aperture in the door.

'Dr. Roderigo Gonzalez De Puebla, the Spanish Ambassador, has arrived Your Grace,' He informed the King, and sunk into a low bow.

The arrival of the Ambassador seemed to cause a considerable diffusion of tension in King Henry's body. Now that the man had finally arrived, Henry's hunched shoulders slumped, and he sat more comfortably in his seat as he reached out for Elizabeth's hand.

'Show his excellency in, please, William.'

All three of them looked up expectantly as De Puebla entered. He was a slight, squat man with swarthy skin, and beady black eyes. He pushed past Sir William Stanley, who discreetly vacated the Chamber, and bowed low to three English Royals before him. When he rose again, and moved over to kiss each of their hands in turn, he seemed to be just as curious about them, as they were about him.

'I trust your journey was a pleasant one, Your Excellence?" Queen Elizabeth asked pleasantly as De Puebla kissed the back of her hand. 'Or at least, the least unpleasant that it could be. The Channel can be rough.'

'Very pleasant, Your Grace," De Puebla answered in a heavy Spanish accent that the other three had to strain their ears to understand. He visibly shuddered at the mention of the journey, though, suggesting that it was anything but pleasant. Once he had been formally received by Lady Margaret, Henry finally signalled to his servants to fetch another chair for the ambassador.

'Welcome to my Kingdom, Dr De Puebla," Henry stated once the man was seated. "If we can get down to business, first; we can then all dine together in the Great Hall. My subjects are waiting anxiously to meet you, and hear the outcome of our negotiations."

'Certainly, Your Grace," De Puebla replied. "My masters are fully prepared to go ahead with the betrothal of the Infanta, Catherine, to the Prince of Wales. However … '

Inside, King Henry bristled. The infamous, and ill-boding "however" had arrived earlier than he expected. He braced himself for whatever new condition that the Spanish monarchs had prepared for him, and gestured to the ambassador to continue.

'However, as to the matter of the Dowry, King Ferdinand proposes that the first instalment be paid as soon as Catherine arrives in England, and her nuptials to the Prince of Wales have been formally blessed,' He explained, laying the Spanish cards clearly on the table.

'And when does Ferdinand propose to pay the rest of it?' Henry asked, his expression hardening.

'After the Infanta and the Prince of Wales have been successfully married for one full year.'

'That seems very reasonable,' Margaret Beaufort spoke, Queen Elizabeth nodded, and turned expectantly to her husband.

'Very well," Henry nodded with a smile. 'The betrothal can go ahead as soon as you report back to King Ferdinand. You yourself will stand as a proxy for the Infanta, is that right?'

'All true, and correct, Your Grace,' De Puebla beamed around at the three of them. However, he lapsed into a silence that made Henry suspect that there was more. 'There is one more thing. This Pretender to the English Crown...' De Puebla's words trailed off, and the man himself looked positively abashed at even having to mention the Pretender and his puppeteers. Henry allowed himself a small, resigned sigh. That again.

'A Pretender,' Henry spoke flatly, and pressed the palm of his hand into his armrest as if to emphasise the point. 'Nothing more, and nothing less. He is being dealt with.'

'All the same, Your Grace, we cannot go ahead with the betrothal until this Pretender is safely out of the way. Surely you can understand the reticence of my masters, the King and Queen?'

As loathe as he was to admit it, King Henry was compelled to do just that. He imagined sending his only daughter, Princess Margaret, off alone to some strange Kingdom where her rights could be usurped at the drop of a hat. It is a parents' lot to worry, but nevertheless, do all they could to minimise the dangers.

'Of course … Well, let's eat, shall we?' Henry rose, the other's followed suit, and the Grooms lead the small procession out of the Presence Chamber, and towards the Great Hall where a great feast had been prepared, and entertainments laid on for the ambassador's arrival. Both Henry and Elizabeth loved to patronise the new, Renaissance artists that came to England from the Continent, and only the best would do for their Spanish guest.

However, King Henry paused in the Outer-Gallery. He gestured to the Ambassador and Lady Margaret to proceed without him, but touched Elizabeth's elbow, a signal for her to stay.

'Look at this,' He said as he reached under his Chamberlain's table, and picked out a dog eared envelope. It bore a mark of the Burgundian's.

'Is that from Sir Robert?' Elizabeth asked, eyeing the letter suspiciously as she reached out to take it from her.

Henry took out the letter, and recognised Sir Roberts Italianate scrawl immediately. His seal was attached to the envelope, too, but that had been removed, and re-moulded back on to the parchment. It was clear to see that the letter had been tampered with. Henry looked about for his Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

'Where the devil has he got to?' Henry demanded quietly, his gaze darted around the Outer Gallery. 'Why on earth did he not hand this straight in to me?'

'Henry,' Elizabeth's voice trembled. Her face clouded over as she placed the letter back down. 'Henry, the Pretender says his spy fought alongside you at Bosworth. It's in the letter."

The Outer Gallery was deserted, and Henry seized it as the perfect opportunity to swear profusely as he read over Sir Robert Clifford's report. When he first heard of a spy in his Court, he naturally thought of the Yorkists, one of his wife's disgruntled relatives. Henry's step father, Sir Thomas Stanley, had waded into the Battle of Bosworth at the very last minute, only once it had become clear that his friend, Richard of Gloucester, was loosing. Stanley's brother, and King Henry's Chamberlain, Sir William Stanley, was fighting alongside him. You could never trust a Stanley. That's what everyone had said to him. Now William Stanley was secretly reading confidential despatches that were none of his concern.

'Say it's not him...' Henry glanced over at Elizabeth, who looked back at him with such sorrow as he'd never seen. But, when she spoke again, it was to try and restore some reason and faith.

'We have no solid proof, Henry. Find Sir William, and get the full story from him. I will send out the search party, while you get back to the ambassador. Tell De Puebla that I was feeling faint, to explain my absence. De Puebla must not find out about this!"

'You're my angel,' Henry sighed as he pulled her into a hug. She laughed into his chest, and squeezed him back. 'Keep calm, and carry on.'

They kissed, and caressed each other tenderly. There was no one there to see them. A rare event, and one which they wanted to make the most of, even under these circumstances. Only reluctantly did they pull back from one another. Henry watched Elizabeth as she swept out into the Palace. A deep, steadying breath later, and he followed suit. His mother, children, subjects and esteemed foreign guests were all waiting for him.

* * *

><p>Sir Robert bolted the heavy oak door behind him, and struck flints to light the tallow fat candles that were set in plinths around his chambers. The guttering glow of the flames seemed to make the shadows deepen, if anything, and make the stubble on the man's jaw even darker. The lacing at the collar of his shirt had loosened, he was unkempt and dishevelled. His stomach growled with hunger, and his body screamed for sleep. Even as he slumped in his seat, waiting for the light to stabilise, he could feel the tug of unconsciousness nagging at his head.<p>

However, his unceasing efforts seemed to have paid off. Sir Robert held in his hands two letters, found among the possessions of the Pretender. It was no conclusive evidence as to his true identity, but it was a start. It was the first, tentative steps towards the truth, and all he, Clifford, had to do was find the missing pieces.

Sir Robert flattened out the first letter, and pulled one of the spitting fat candles closer to read the minute scrawl. The name on the envelope was Pierre Osbeck:

"_Dear Master Osbeck,_

_May I heartily commend me unto you, and pray that this letter finds you in good health. _

_I would like to begin by thanking you for the payment, (even if it was rather late), of twenty-five crowns towards the money we lent you some time previous._

_However, as I am sure you understand, this sum of money doesn't even cover the interest that has built up on your original loan from us!_

_It is with a heavy heart, therefore, that I must insist that another payment is made to us before the end of this week."_

Sir Robert folded the letter carefully away, and took out the second letter. Again, he tilted the parchment (this one addressed to a Perkin Warbecque), and read swiftly onwards, muttering the words as he went:

"_Dear Perkin,_

_Mine own dear son, what have you gotten yourself into now? Your mother and I are not rich people, Perkin. We simply cannot afford to keep financially bailing you out every time you fancy treating yourself to another loan, to pay for yet more fancy clothes and day trips to Provence!_

_However, you are our son, and as such, we want to help you in every way we can. Please find enclosed the monies you need to pay off the creditor, and that way you can at least avoid the debtor's prison. Do not do this again,_

_Your ever loving father,_

_Jehan Warbecque._

The letter addressed to Warbecque was dated three months later than the one addressed to Osbeck.

'Perkin Warbecque... Pierre Osbeck', Sir Robert repeated the names to himself as he thoughtfully tapped the tips of fingers against the parchment of Jehan's letter. Two different, but remarkably similar names, one letter definitely in relation to the other.

The Duchess's hunting party was due to return at any hour. Sir Robert had to weigh his options carefully. Even though he'd carefully covered the tracks of his search, he could still be found out. If he ran to Flanders to seek out Jehan Warbecque now, he could never return here and question the Pretender any further. It was a risk. Clifford fell back against the mattress and stared up at the canopy above his head. He needed sleep more than anything. But he needed to get moving. So close to a solution, he could almost touch it. Somewhere deep in his brain, a decision made itself of its' own accord, and he drifted off into a deep sleep.


	5. Exorcising Ghosts

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the reviews, it means a lot. I just want to start by stating that I don't own the characters, the events, or the history. Thanks again, and please read and review!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five: Exorcising Ghosts.<strong>

"I tried to bring him down myself, once."

Elizabeth's voice was distant, sounded like it was coming from a long way away. Henry rolled over on to his side, so that he was face to face with his wife, beside him in the bed. He could see by the light of the fire that her eyes were unfocussed as she reached far, far back to some place, some event, in her turbulent adolescence.

"Who?" He asked.

"Him," She replied. Sensing Henry's lack of any form of comprehension, she goes on to elaborate. "My uncle, Richard of Gloucester."

Henry could sense a revelation coming on. He could hear it in the tremor of her voice, the same way that certain animals sense danger in the vibrations of the earth.

"I didn't think it through at all. I acted impulsively, like a knee jerk," She explained. "All I could see was him, flaunting his victory, pretending to love justice, and acting the peace maker; after everything he'd done to us. So, I flirted outrageously with him. I wanted to make him fall in love with me, and let the resultant scandal bring him down."

"Elizabeth," Henry sighed as he placed a protective arm over her hip beneath the quilt. He wanted more than anything to be able to erase that time in her life. To make her forget it ever happened. All he can do is accentuate the positive. "It's all over, now."

"Richard intercepted my uncle Anthony, Earl Rivers, and my eldest step brother, Richard Grey, as they escorted my brother, King Edward V, through Stony Stratford. Richard had them both arrested, and executed at Pontefract Castle. My mother was devastated. We had to flee into sanctuary at Westminster Abbey after that had happened. Then we heard about Sir William Hastings. My father's closest friend, summarily executed on Richard's orders. No questions, no trial, not even a priest to absolve him of his sins. Poor Sir William, his head hacked off on a piece of lumbar, completely unshriven."

Elizabeth continued her story as though Henry had not spoken at all. He could tell that Elizabeth needed to talk about what happened. To exorcise those ghosts, and end the silence that had surrounded all their fate's for the last decade, now. So, he let her relive that tragic chain of events that had warped all the survivor's lives ever since. "Go on," He quietly urged her, unconsciously tightening his protective hold on her.

"Of course, my other brother Richard, Duke of York, was with us in Sanctuary. We went from the Palace to the crypts in the space of one afternoon. Then, he came to us one afternoon. My lady mother spoke to him. He told her that King Edward was all alone in the Tower, and it is such a doleful hell hole, Henry. You know that," It was the first sign Elizabeth had given that she was actually talking to Henry.

"Did you know that Edward was still alive at that point?" He asked, trying with all his will to be tactful as he trod through the maze of Elizabeth's raw emotions.

"We had no reason to suspect otherwise," She answered firmly. "Thats' why mother let Richard go, you see. Despite everything our Uncle Richard had done, he was always, always loyal to our father, King Edward IV. Richard, if anything, followed father blindly, and unquestioningly. I have to credit him with that, at the very least. That is why we all thought that Uncle Richard would harm any of us. Because we were his beloved brother's children."

"But you were not an extension of King Edward," Henry himself cannot make sense of those events. As all this had unfolded, he was merely a penniless exile living in Burgundy, waiting impatiently for the day when we could come home, and kiss whatever shore he landed on. "Richard of Gloucester would only have seen the Wydeville in all of you children, and not the Plantagenet."

"We know that, now," She replied, her voice still sounded as though she were in a dream. "So, you see, I was maddened with grief. Uncle Richard did some sort of a deal with my mother, and we came out of Sanctuary. Us girls, harmless girls who were no threat to his crown, were permitted to attend Queen Anne at Court. I knew that she was sick, and Richard would soon be looking for a new wife. So, I chanced my arm at seducing him. Well, everyone said that I took after my mother, who was one of the great beauties of her day. I thought that the scandal would destroy Richard of Gloucester. I didn't care about my own disgrace. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to disgrace him, as his bastardisation of us had disgraced me."

Henry remembered the scandal all too well. But the scandal was on Elizabeth, and not Richard of Gloucester, who distanced himself from Elizabeth's actions with ease. He and Elizabeth had already been promised to each other in marriage, when the scandal broke. He'd taken it personally. He'd taken it as a betrayal. Elizabeth seemed to guess what he was thinking.

"It wasn't you, Henry. I'd never met you, and I never thought … Well, no one did, did they?"

"What?" Henry had to suppress a small laugh. "That I'd never win? No, I suppose they didn't. In all honesty, neither did I. The outcome of Bosworth was a very pleasant surprise."

"I thought that Richard would capture you, and kill you. Just like he did to Henry Stafford, Duke of Buckingham, and all those others who'd dared to oppose him. And with you dead, even though I'd never met you, I would have been left with nothing, again. You were my last hope."

Henry's heart could have burst with tenderness. Royal decorum prohibited most human emotions, but he was never much of a Royal born, so to the Devil with decorum. Elizabeth and he had never had such a full, and frank discussion of the events of those tumultuous days, before.

"So you see, Henry, Richard of Gloucester was responsible for the deaths of three of my brothers, one of my uncles, and many of my family's closest companions. Some people have been saying that mother gave him a changeling, but that is not true. I saw my brother leaving Sanctuary with Uncle Richard, and that was no changeling."

It was another common theory. That Richard of Shrewsbury had been substituted for a common Peasant boy. But, Richard of Gloucester knew full well what his nephews looked like. That man was many things, but a simpleton was not one of them.

"Elizabeth," Henry reached out and gently dabbed away a tear that had leaked from his wife's eye before it slid down her cheek. "I got a message before I came up to bed. Sir James Tyrrell has been found. He is in the Tower, now. He can help us get to the bottom of everything that has been happening around here. I know he can. He may even lead us to the remains of your brothers."

Elizabeth now looked at Henry as thought she were actually seeing him. A renewed hope flared in the look in her eye. The continued posturings of the Pretender, and the escape of Sir Thomas Stanley had hit her hard. Now, there was a new, much needed lead.

"Then all this could soon be over?" She asked as she propped herself up on her elbow. "If we can get the truth out of Tyrrell, then the Pretender is finished. You don't need to engage in battle, and my crazed aunt Margaret can return to her life of peaceful, Burgundian obscurity."

Henry made no reply, but for the small flicker of a smile.

* * *

><p>King Henry suppressed a shudder as he stepped over the threshold of the Tower. He ducked beneath a low, stone arch of a doorway designed for midgets, and was hit instantly by the icy draughts that swept every inch of the ancient fortress. Behind him, his mother wrapped her sable tighter over her sparse frame as she stiffened against the same draughts that had assaulted Henry. Then came John Morton, Archbishop of Canterbury, and his young assistant, a boy of about fourteen years, who was being educated in Morton's household.<p>

"He's learning the Law," Morton had proudly informed them as they climbed into the Royal Barge at Greenwich Palace. "He's keen to learn more about Richard of Gloucester, too. Isn't that right, Thomas?" Morton had added, as they had swept downriver to the fortress. The boy merely blushed a violent shade of scarlet as the King looked at him appraisingly. The boy eventually managed to stammer something about one day writing a book concerning the whole life of Richard of Gloucester, to show the whole of Christendom what a villain he was. Henry had never heard of such a thing, but grunted his approval at the child, nonetheless.

Now, the four of them were being led by a torch bearing guard through the labyrinthine passageways of the Tower, to Sir James Tyrrell's cell. They passed the Wakefield Tower, where poor King Henry VI had been murdered on Edward IV's orders, as he knelt in prayer. Henry crossed himself as he passed the spot, and reminded himself to see to the old King, his cousin's, reburial.

Finally, they reached a heavy iron door, and came to standstill while the guard fumbled with a set of keys attached to his belt. After a few moments, Henry winced against the grating scrape of the bolt being thrown back, and door swung open to reveal a spacious, but dismal cell. Sir James Tyrrell sat brooding by the flame of a single tallow fat candle at a rickety table. He looked up, hollow eyed, as the small party of five entered the cell, and rose to his feet.

"Gentlemen," He greeted them in general, and looked past the King, making no special deference to him at all.

"Sir James, we wondered if you might like to answer a few questions we have concerning the two Princes, who vanished from this place in the year of 1483," Archbishop Morton kept his tone casual, explaining their sudden appearance in the cell as he pulled up a chair for Lady Margaret rest in while the interrogation got under way. "And, of course, about the identity of the man who claims to be Richard of Shrewsbury, Duke of York."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tyrrell replied without hesitation, still on his feet, and now backing into a corner of the cell. The shadows fell at the hollows of his cheeks, and his skin was made all the more pallid by the light of the candle, making him look like death itself.

"I think you do," Henry interjected as he leaned casually against the damp stone wall of the cell. "You were Richard's most trusted Councillor, were you not?"

"You already know that to be the case, Your Grace," Sir James replied earnestly. "You pardoned me for that. You gave me back my lands, and my offices!"

"You ruined your second yourself," Margaret spoke up from her corner of the cell.

"Now lets' see," Henry spoke over Margaret, keen to keep the discussion on topic before anyone had the chance to stray down the path who did what, and to whom. "You, as you rightly point out, were pardoned. However, was it not you backing Lambert Simnel in his attempt to impersonate Richard of Shrewsbury? Was it not you who helped the leader of that rebellion, Edmund de la Pole, flee the country after wards? Now you're telling me that this other Pretender has appeared from nowhere, and you know nothing about him?"

Henry paced over to the small table, fixing Tyrrell with a hard look that scrutinised every feature of his face. Tyrrell looked like a rabbit, caught in a trap. His eyes glittered as they fell on Margaret Beaufort, still perched on her stool in the corner of the cell.

"What about her?" He asked, jerking his head in Margaret's direction. "What does she know about the Princes, eh? Everyone knows Sir Thomas Stanley was all over this place at the time, and everyone knows how much you Tudors had to gain from the deaths of those boys."

A maddening smile of triumph split Tyrrell's face that made his face even more hollow looking. Henry's temper snapped as he shoved hard at the table he was leaning on, and sending it crashing to the stone floor. Bishop Morton immediately placed himself between the two men, lest the King's infamous temper should get the better of him.

"Henry!" Margaret's voice was sharp, but surprisingly calm, given that she had as good as been accused of murdering two children. Henry snapped around to face her, and immediately checked himself. Margaret, assured of her son's composure, rose elegantly to her feet and crossed the room to where Tyrrell still leered at them from the shadows.

"I was well acquainted with the line of succession, Sir James, I will give you that," Margaret conceded, affecting a smooth affability. "So tell me, what exactly did I have to gain by murdering two children, and placing my arch-enemy Richard of Gloucester on the throne?"

Margaret smiled almost beatifically at the man, now. Tyrrell, for his part, had once again assumed that trapped rabbit look in his eyes.

"You knew that Richard would get the blame for it, and that people would hate him for it," Tyrrell blurted out.

Archbishop Morton laughed. He actually laughed at the ludicrous notion. Henry was strongly reminded of the conversation he'd had with Elizabeth the night before. The man never gets the blame. Nobody knows that better than Lady Margaret Beaufort. Quite out of the blue, a third voice spoke. One that Henry didn't recognise.

"Forgive me," Thomas the Law student stepped from his lurking place in the shadows. "But, I have a question for Sir James, if I may?"

He paused politely, waiting for permission to speak which Henry duly granted. Young Thomas approached Tyrrell as though he were one of the Tower lions in the menagerie.

"I have been giving this some thought, and as I understand it, there was a chain of command. The order for the deaths of the Princes came from Richard of Gloucester, the pretended King at the time. Richard, as we know was far away from London, making sure that he was well out of the way when the deed was done. So thats' the first sign that Gloucester was up to something," Thomas paused, his doe eyes glancing nervously at all of the other faces in the room before continuing. "Then the order would first have gone to the constable of the Tower, Sir Thomas Brackenbury, isn't that right?"

"Yes, but Brackenbury is dead," Margaret answered. "He fell at Bosworth Field alongside his master, Richard of Gloucester."

"Sir James, you were Brackenbury's second in command, were you not?" Thomas asked, fixing the Prisoner with a politely curious expression. "So you must have known what happened that night. Brackenbury could only have spoken to you about it, and seeing as you were not with Richard on that fateful progress, you must have been here."

Tyrrell made no reply. He sat firmly back down behind the table, and stared resolutely at the wall behind Henry and the Archbishop.

"I think it's time to use some gentle persuasion, don't you?" Morton whispered softly in Henry's ear, so that only he could hear it. Henry affected not to hear him, but gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. Henry then turned to Thomas, who was still stood facing the Prisoner, waiting for an answer that Henry knew could now only be racked out of the man.

"What's your name, boy?" Henry asked him. The boy gave a visible gasp of shock as he jerked around to face the King.

"Thomas More, sir," He yelped in response, sinking into a clumsy bow. Henry gave the boy a small nod of appreciation.

"Very well," Henry addressed the room at large. "This is getting us nowhere, and I have to leave London, soon and deal with this Pretender. Lets' wrap this up and … others … can take over."

* * *

><p>Sir Robert was awoken by the sound of approaching horses. Dazed with sleep, he groggily climbed out of the bed, still fully dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing for the last day or so, and stumbled to the window. He could see the returning hunting party clearly through the shimmering heat haze. But Margaret was now alone. The Pretender was like Margaret's shadow, but now he was gone. Sir Robert cursed heavily under his breath as he shook himself fully awake so that he could properly gather his wits.<p>

He splashed cold water on his face in a small basin by the window, all the while listening as the thundering of the horses hooves drew ever closer. He towelled himself dry, and quickly changed into a clean shirt before going out to greet the Duchess, and see if he could get his worse fears regarding the Pretender's sudden absence confirmed.

"Your Grace," Sir Robert panted as he emerged at a run from the Palace, over to the Duchess's side.

"Sir Robert!" Margaret called down cheerily in response. Her footman held out his arm to the Duchess, and she leapt down from her mount in one graceful movement. "Come and take breakfast with me. I miss King Richard now that he has set sail for the English campaign."

"So, he's already gone then?" Sir Robert tried to keep the tone of his voice casual. "When did he leave? I thought that he was hunting with you?"

"A change of plan, unfortunately. We met a messenger from our source within Henry Tudor's Court, and it seems he already found out about our plans. Well, it was inevitable, really. Especially when the French gave us their backing. He left as soon as we got the message," Margaret explained breezily.

The Pretender had a three day head start, and King Henry won't have the faintest clue. Sir Robert followed the Duchess helplessly. He couldn't very well turn and run for his life, as it would arouse far too much suspicion. Instead, he decided on changing tack, and using this wasted time to the best of his own advantage.

"Before I forget, Your Grace, a messenger turned up looking for a Master Perkin Warbeck, and a Master Pierre Osbeck. I just assumed that they were members of your household, and that they were on the hunting trip with you," Sir Robert explained, the lies tripping lightly off his tongue. "I can't say I'd ever even heard of them."

"Who were these messengers from?" The Duchess demanded to know, the breezy demeanour dropped like a stone and her body stiffened.

"I didn't recognise the Livery, Your Grace. I'm sorry."

"No such people exist," Margaret snapped, before quick marching towards the Palace entrance. "There must have been a mistake."

Sir Robert paused and watched her retreat within the Palace buildings, and allowed himself a moment of quiet reflection. She knows something, he thinks to himself as he breathes in the cloud of her rose water scent. Reluctantly, however, he follows her inside for the breakfast she had planned for them. But as soon as that was over, he would leave. Even if he had to flee like a thief in the night, he had to get word to King Henry that the invasion was happening much earlier than anticipated, and then it would be on to Flanders, to find out more about his new friend, Perkin Warbeck.


	6. Great Expectations

**Author's Note:** Thank you for the reviews, its is greatly appreciated and means a lot, so thank you! By way of disclaimer, I'd like to state I own none of the characters, events or the history. Thanks again, and please read and review.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six: Great Expectations. <strong>

Queen Elizabeth checked the date. Beside her, her sister Catherine craned her neck to see over Elizabeth's shoulder, and beamed happily as she counted off the months.

"Three months!" She chirruped as she rocked back on the balls of her feet.

Elizabeth took the girl's hands in her own, and lead her back over to the bed as she allowed herself a cautious smile.

"Sister, be so kind as to fetch the Court physician, and inform the King, too. Henry will want to hear of this before he leaves," Elizabeth instructed Catherine. Despite her sister's obvious excitement, Elizabeth was careful to keep herself in check. Her monthly courses had not put in an appearance for three months, and earlier that morning she'd been struck with a sudden sickness the likes of which she'd not suffered since little Prince Henry had decided to make his presence in her belly known to her.

Catherine bobbed a small curtsey, and positively bounded from the chamber in a rush of euphoria. Meanwhile, Elizabeth lay back on the bed in just a simple night shift. Her hands caressed her belly. Flat. Completely flat. Prince Henry had made her swell before this, she was sure of it. She tried to remember what it was like with Prince Arthur. Had she not swelled early with him, too? What about Margaret? She tried furiously to remember, but she couldn't. She pressed the tips of her fingers into the area around her belly button, where she knew the child would be, if indeed there was one. She couldn't feel anything, and let her hands flop back to her sides as she gave an exasperated sigh.

Barely thirty minutes later, Catherine showed the Physician into the Queen's apartments. King Henry was on their heels, pacing the Outer Chamber with Catherine as the Physician did his work. He tapped at the Queen's belly through her shift, he asked a few questions, and felt her temperature. In the end, he told Elizabeth nothing that she hadn't already guessed for herself.

"It could very well be that Your Grace is with child," He concluded, as though this were some great revelation.

"Thank you, Doctor. Your help is much appreciated," Elizabeth smiled up at him as she lay there feeling self conscious about her state of undress. Only Henry and her ladies saw her in her night things, normally.

King Henry entered the chamber as the Physician withdrew, almost knocking the man over as he did so. With a hastily mumbled apology, he crossed the room to where Elizabeth swung herself off the bed, and into his arms.

"Are you all right?" He asked. "How are you feeling? I can delay my departure, if you want?"

"No," Elizabeth was resolute. "You must go, Henry. I have my maids, your mother, and a Court full of servants and Physicians."

Henry could tell, just by looking at her, that she would give anything for circumstances to be different. That she, like her mother before her, was putting on a brave face as she waved her husband off and into battle, not sure of whether they would ever be reunited. Smiling through the agonising unknown. The wives and mothers of England had become experts at it, and turned it into a art form.

"You know what to do if things turn ugly, don't you?" Of course she does, Henry thinks to himself. Grab whatever comes to hand, and run for their lives into the Sanctuary of Westminster Abbey. He has to remind himself that Elizabeth is an old hand at that.

"You have the luck of the Devil himself, Henry Tudor," She smiled up at him with tears in her eyes as she fussed with the lapels of his jacket. "Go." She added firmly. "Now. Just go, now."

Henry knew she did not mean to be heartless. The only thing he thought was worse than a goodbye, was a long goodbye. He looked Elizabeth up and down one final time, he took in the shape of her body beneath the shift she wore. With a low bow, he backed out of the Chamber, and back into the arms of his generals.

"Emergency despatch from Sir Robert Clifford, Your Grace," Said John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, as he and the King made their way out to the stables. King Henry stopped in his tracks and studied the expression on Oxford's face, and instantly realised the news was not good.

"Pray tell," Henry mumbled, urging the Earl onwards towards their horses and the band of men at arms that would accompany them to the east coast, where the Pretender's army was set to land in just over a month's time.

"It seems' our new Pretender has already set sail for England," De Vere read from a small roll of parchment in his hands. "However, we do know that he will be landing in Kent. So there will be no need to waste time pretending to go to Scotland."

King Henry's heart palpitated wildly at the news, but his ever present sense of perspective soon kicked in. He had assembled a rag-tag army of brigands and mercenaries, and won battles before. He'd suffered worse shocks than this before, and won.

"Well," Henry stated matter of factly. "We'd better get a move on then, hadn't we?"

* * *

><p>The French army, supposedly the best in Europe, writhed and vomited as the ships rolled across the narrow sea to England. The tall, handsome man at the head of them all, watched helplessly. One ship had already landed on the south coast of England. He had hoped that they were launching some sort of surprise advance attack on the English, but the so-called soldiers merely plundered the first village they came across, raped a few maids, stole some cattle, and promptly returned to France with their booty; all without so much as a 'by-your-leave' to others in the fleet.<p>

The man who called himself King Richard IV of England sat back in his berth and sighed. It seemed to him that the best the King of France could give him were thieves and plunderers, and not much else besides. However, the further up the east coast they sailed, the his hopes were raised. Soon, they would be landing in Kent, and beginning a victorious march south to claim the English capital as their own. As soon as the English people saw him, he knew deep in his heart, that they would recognise him as their King, as the lost Prince Richard. He had it all mapped out in his mind. The victorious processions through London. The people crowding around to get a good look at him, as he sat atop a huge Destrier horse, as the people all threw their caps in the air. He pictured Henry Tudor, a humiliated prisoner, waiting to have his head cut off while he, Richard, was being crowned and anointed as the King of England.

The Pretender's dreams were intruded upon by an almighty explosion. The boat pitched violently to the right as a great wave smashed against the side of the ship, sending the contents of the birth scattering about the floor. He had to clutch at a set of curtains to keep himself steady as the boat finally began trying to correct itself. The explosion was met by a moment of deadly silence. A moment broken suddenly by the shrieks and shouts of the men out on deck.

The Pretender, desperately trying to keep his balance as the ship continued to sway, staggered like a drunk to the door of his berth.

"What's going on!" He bellowed at the top of his voice, trying to make himself heard above the cacophony of voices that now filled the air all around him.

"Canon fire, Your Grace," An unseen crewman bellowed back. "King Henry's men must know that we're here."

Without waiting for any further explanation, the Pretender fought his way out on deck to see what was happening for himself. As soon as he was outside, he could see that one of his few, precious ships was fast sinking beneath the rolling, iron grey waves. The stormy seas had blown them much, much too close to the coast, and now the whole fleet was at the mercy of the Royal Army who seemed to be ready and waiting for them.

The men on the other ships were too preoccupied with rescuing their comrades from the water to pay attention to anything else that was going on around them. The Pretender gripped the rails of the ship as he manoeuvred himself around, his eyes searching the waters frantically for any survivors of the sunken war ship. They hadn't even landed, and already the invasion had descending into a farce. That little voice at the back of his mind urged him onwards, even at the cost of his own life. But that voice was small, and getting smaller every time the sea spat out another body from the felled ship.

"He's meant to be in Scotland," The Pretender whispered, his words instantly disappeared into the strong westerly winds that blasted the boats mercilessly. "It was all meant to be so simple."

"Your Grace!" A voice boomed across the deck of the ship, and the Pretender spun on his heels to see Edmund De La Pole waving frantically at him from the opposite side of the prow. "Over here! I have urgent news!"

Like two drunks dancing a Galliard on a giant, out of control see-saw, the two men stumbled haphazardly towards each other. The storms raged, pushing the boats closer to the English coast, and things were going ever more badly. At least with De La Pole, the would-be King knew he wouldn't have to pretend otherwise. After what seemed like an hour of dangerous tooing and froing across the deck of the ship, the Pretender and De La Pole collapsed into each other's arms like serenading lovers, and fell to the wet, sea-sprayed decks. There they lay, not even making the effort to get back up again.

"Your Grace, we managed to get a messenger from Sir Thomas Stanley on board," De La Pole shouted above the storm. "That was his ship that was sunk."

"What does he say?"

"He says we must not land in England. We must go on to Scotland."

All of the Pretender's great expectations of an easy invasion vanish in a trice. Swept away like driftwood in a tempest. He nods his head as best he can while spread-eagle on the deck of the pitching boat.

"Very well, to Scotland. Surely, the King of Scots will have a use for me."

* * *

><p>King Henry slowed down his horse as the rider, approaching from the opposite direction came more clearly into his line of vision. He threw out his left arm, a signal to the Earl of Oxford to do likewise.<p>

"Over there," Henry, as soon as they were at a standstill, nodded to the approaching horseman. "Thats' Wyatt's banner, isn't it?"

John De Vere fell silent as he glowered into the distance. Behind them, the entire Royal Army was scattering as the sudden command to halt caught them all off guard.

"I think thats' old Henry Wyatt himself," De Vere answered, his voice distant, still shielding his eyes from the blazing sun as the rider drew closer. Henry did likewise. A big smile spread across the King's face, and he leapt lightly down from the saddle as Sir Henry Wyatt, his old friend, finally drew level with them.

The old King, Richard of Gloucester, had held Wyatt a prisoner in Tower. Wyatt had been tortured, racked to within an inch of his life, and had his teeth pulled out one by one; all just so they could get information on him, Henry Tudor. Wyatt held out. He refused to utter a single word. The two threw their arms around each other like long lost relatives.

"One enemy ship has been sunk, and the Pretender has fled," Old Wyatt informed the King as they separated. "Not one of them even had the backbone in them to come ashore."

After months of build up, months of preparing to take to the field of battle, Henry felt like a lover who'd been spurned at the moment of an almighty orgasm. Let down. Deflated.

"Surely you jest," Henry groaned feebly. Behind Henry, the Earl of Oxford made strange, choking noises from deep within his throat. "Your Grace, relay the news to the men. Disperse them immediately," Henry instructed the Earl, more to stop him from choking to death, than to give him something to do.

"Hold!" Commanded Wyatt as he reined in the Earl's horse before he could move off. "Wait, please, I have news."

Henry and the Earl exchanged a glance as Wyatt carried on.

"My retainers managed to take some prisoners," Wyatt explained as he turned a sorrowful gaze on to King Henry. "Your Grace, your own kinsman, Sir William Stanley is among them."

Never trust a Stanley. It was a mantra that King Henry, as well as his predecessor's, had heard time and time again. Yet, he and his predecessor's never listened.

"I knew as much, Henry," The King replied quietly before turning back to the Earl. "Retain enough men to escort the prisoners to London. The rest can be dispersed."

"Which direction did the Pretender's ships go in?" Henry asked Wyatt as they walked dejectedly back to their horses, which now lazily gnawed at the lush grass on the roadside verges.

"North, but my men are tracking them. We'll tail them as far as we can, and report back to Your Grace in London as soon as we know where they've holed up."

As soon as they were mounted again, Sir Henry Wyatt headed back the way he'd come, back towards his home in Kent. King Henry watched him vanish again, leaving him alone with just his frustration and dejection for company.

"The Queen is with child, do you know that?" He asked a passing Groom. The man looked up at the King in surprise. "Oh yes. I left my pregnant wife for this!" He made an expansive gesture with his left arm, sweeping across the deserted horizon to the east, and took in the returning army to the south. Another month down the drains, and Henry rejoined his army, leading them forlornly back to London.


	7. Hatched, Matched, and Despatched

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone for the reviews of this fic. Your input means a great deal, and its' great to get feed back, so thank you. The usual disclaimers apply, hope everyone enjoys, and thank you again!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven: Hatched, Matched and Despatched.<strong>

Sir William Courtenay cut a fine dash as he swept a low bow to Queen Elizabeth, who was seated beside her mother in law, the Countess of Richmond up on the dais of the Presence Chamber. Elizabeth glanced through the corner of her eye to where her sister, Catherine of York, cowered like a nervous child behind one of the velvet curtains with her eyes as wide as plates. She then turned her attention back to Sir William. The man was a loyal Lancastrian, and had just been created Earl of Devon by King Henry for his services to the Tudors' during their long years of struggle in exile. Now, Sir William had come to offer himself for an altogether different service to the Crown and Country.

"So, Sir William, you think that you'll be a suitable match for my beloved sister?" Queen Elizabeth asked, unable to resist another side-long glance at Catherine, who had flushed scarlet at the mention of her name and the possibility of marriage. "You don't object to being matched to one of us wild ladies of York?" She sounded almost teasing.

Sir William righted his posture. He stood with his back straight, and looked Queen Elizabeth in the eye. In return, Elizabeth smiled appreciatively. Only an honest man would look a Queen in the eye. It boded well, and already Elizabeth had high hopes of success. Her baby sister, married at last; however, she certainly couldn't let Courtenay think he'd won his prize that easily. Even high born men needed to sweat a little, before getting their way.

"With your leave, madam," He politely asked for permission to press his suite. "This is the vision for the new monarchy, spearheaded by the gracious King, and yourself. To see the houses of our families reunited. The white rose and the red brought together to compliment each other, after years of conflicting with each other. Besides, I have seen Lady Catherine. Is it not the duty of all men to love her, from afar? I don't see why I should not be the one to make an honest match for her. I believe that I can make her the happiest woman in England … And I have an Earldom, now."

"Smooth," Elizabeth replied with a broad smile. For a moment, she could have sworn she saw the man wink at her, as though she were a dairy maid at the local faire. "If the Countess of Richmond is agreeable also, we shall go ahead and ratify your proposal, and you shall have Lady Catherine's hand in marriage."

Elizabeth turned to face her mother in law, who looked back with a faint smile. Her vision of the Tudor future got clearer by the day.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Lady Margaret acknowledged the Queen. She turned to Sir William: "I see no impediments to the match at all. You have my blessing, and I wish you a fruitful union, my lord of Devon. May God bless you."

"I realise, Sir William, that you have espied Princess Catherine about my Court on numerous occasions," Elizabeth's face had turned rather stern as she spoke. "However, you realise that it would be most improper for you to see her again before your wedding? You shall have to be sent from Court until the wedding day."

"Yes, Your Grace. I shall be leaving at high noon," Courtenay replied with another low, sweeping bow to the two ladies before him, cap in hand as ever.

"If that will be all, you're dismissed, my lord of Devon," Margaret Beaufort clapped her hands, and Courtenay backed away, still stooped in deference. "You can come out of hiding now, Lady Catherine."

Elizabeth watched as her sister peeked coyly from around the curtain before treading softly up on to the dais. Her relief was etched all over her face.

"Thank you so much, Your Graces," Catherine sank into a low curtsey. "I couldn't have hoped for a finer gentleman for a match."

"May God bless you both," Margaret raised Catherine from her curtsey. Memories of her own marriages usually filled her with horror. Betrothed at nine to John de la Pole, an arrangement annulled two years later. Then came Edmund, Earl of Richmond. She was eleven. He was twenty-five. Henry was the only good thing to come from that marriage. Her body, just thirteen years in maturation, had been so twisted by the delivery of Henry, that she'd never had any more children, despite a further two husbands. She had longed for more. Boys or girls. Any would have done, especially as Henry had been all but snatched from her arms when he was barely a year old. Margaret had played her part in his life, just by safely birthing him. It was there that her role in his life was expected to end. She had learned, at just thirteen, that she would have to fight tooth and nail for him, and for herself. "Excuse me, Ladies. I must to Chapel," Margaret excused herself before they noticed the tear in her eye.

"Is Lady Margaret all right, Elizabeth?" Catherine asked as she watched the wizened old lady vanish behind the doors.

"She is fine, sister. She's as tough as a Tanner," Elizabeth linked her arm through Catherine's as she rose from her seat. Her belly was starting to protrude with the baby, now. Slight, but rounded. Small, but still visible. "This business with the Pretender is getting to her, too. It is starting to get to all of us."

"I am sorry that King Henry had no chance to capture the Pretender," Catherine replied, dropping the subject of Lady Margaret as soon as their pretended brother was mentioned. "I was curious to see him."

Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks, and tugged on Catherine's arm so that they stood face to face. They were in the connecting gallery that linked the Presence and Privy Chambers, and were quite alone, however Elizabeth shot a furtive glance around them all the same.

"Sister, tell me you're not trying to say what I think you are?" She demanded, fixing Catherine with a hard stare.

"What?" Catherine protested, her voice sounded stung. "Elizabeth, what is wrong with you? I was not thinking anything."

"He is a fraud, Catherine," Elizabeth stated firmly. "He is not our brother, because our brothers' are dead. All of them."

Catherine looked at Elizabeth and winced from the pain as her fingernails dug deep into her elbow.

"Elizabeth, you're hurting me!" Catherine yelped. Elizabeth, as though she had suddenly snapped out of a trance, relinquished her grip on Catherine's arm.

"I-I'm sorry, Cate," Elizabeth stammered as she kneaded her temples. A dull ache had begun to gnaw there every time the Pretender was mentioned. The way that Catherine looked back at her brought a wave of guilt crashing over already fraught mind.

"Elizabeth, what's happened to you? Ever since that man first appeared … " Catherine let the rest of her sentence dissolve into the heavy silence that descended between them as they resumed the rest of the short journey to the Privy Chamber.

"Do you remember him?" Elizabeth asked as she settled into a more comfortable chair by the fire. Catherine, as usual, knelt at her sister's feet, and let her head rest in Elizabeth's lap.

"Our brother Richard?"

"Yes," Elizabeth answered dully. "I don't suppose that you do, you were only four when he and Edward died. He was ever so gentle. Thats' why I don't think this pretender could possibly be him."

"Elizabeth, don't," Catherine implored her. "You'll upset yourself again. You need to think about the baby, now."

Elizabeth said no more. She took up her needlework, and Catherine rifled through a wooden box of fabrics, looking for the perfect scrap to mould into a baby gown. Whatever you say, say nothing at all. A ringed off patch of silence in their hearts where their brother's should have been. An almost imperceptible flutter in her belly reminded Elizabeth that she had a future to think about, too. But the future was so hard, when the ghosts of the past refused to lie peacefully in their graves.

* * *

><p>The King's carriage clattered over the cobblestoned streets of London as they made their way home to Greenwich Palace. After two months of clean country air, the malodorous stench of the town slapped them in the face like a final insult. John De Vere, sat to King Henry's left, pulled back the velvet curtain, and looked out as the city rolled slowly by. The sounds of the market traders plying their wares, the calls of the good wives rounding up their semi-feral children, and the singing of the drunks down by the riverside filled the air, and followed them in their wake. London. The hub of humanity.<p>

"Your Grace," The Earl spoke after letting the curtain fall, and blot out his view of the City. "Maybe this is the last we'll ever see of him?"

"You mean, he's chanced his arm once, and nearly had it bitten off?" Henry asked, scepticism dripped from the tone of his voice.

"Its' a bit hopeful, especially with the French backing he had," De Vere admitted. "But that was piss poor, even by the standards of past Pretenders."

Henry snorted with derisive laughter. "Well, here's the Palace. Sir Robert will have written again by now. Lets just see what he has to say."

Even before the carriage pulled up before the Palace, various bodies spilled outside to bombard him with petitions, queries, gossip, and intrigue. He looked over the sea of clamouring faces, trying to spot if Queen Elizabeth lurked among them, trying to reach him. But wisely, she's stayed away. It never stopped him from hoping. All those who needed to know about the Pretender's escape already did. Henry had no need to stop and break the news again.

"Stand back, Gentlemen!" De Vere warded off the Courtiers as he bustled King Henry back into the sanctuary of the Palace. "The King had important business to attend to. Audiences will be granted in the usual way!"

"Thanks, John," Henry mumbled in the Earl's ear as they battled their way through the press of bodies to the Royal Apartments.

"Papa!" A shrill voice rang out across the Presence Chamber as soon as Henry had opened the door, just as an auburn headed canon ball careered across the room, and slammed into his leg.

"Hello, Harry," Henry scooped his two year old son up into his arms. The Prince's face shone with excitement to see his father home, again.

"Where've you been?" Prince Harry demanded indignantly as he glared up at his father.

"Account for yourself, your grace," John De Vere mocked good naturedly as he hovered in the doorway of the Chamber.

"Papa's been busy," Henry explained gently as he carried the child through to the Privy Chamber. His way, however, was barred by the looming presence of Archbishop Morton.

"Your Grace," Morton bowed solemnly to the King.

As he sensed the impending doom in the Archbishop's voice, King Henry let Prince Harry slide to the floor so he could run back to his nurses who'd trailed after them.

"Your Grace, what news?" Henry asked.

"The Pretender has landed in Scotland," Morton explained. That much, Henry had already expected. There was more, though. He could see it in Morton's rheumy eyes. "The Scots King, James, has offered the Pretender the hand of Lady Katherine Gordon in marriage."

"She is the daughter of the Earl of Huntley," Henry replied, scandalised. "What in the name of God is the Scots King playing at?"

"He is trying to goad you," Morton stated firmly, silently warning the King not to overreact. "There is, however, some good news. Sir James Tyrrell has confessed to murdering the two Princes-"

"How?" King Henry interjected. "How badly did they rack him?"

"He confessed, Your Grace," Morton pointedly replied, as though nothing else mattered. It was not what Henry had asked, but he took his cue from the look on Morton's face, and quietly dropped the subject.

"See that he is dealt with, and publish his confession throughout the Kingdom. Every man, woman and child in this Realm must hear it," Henry instructed. He was about to side step the Archbishop, but Morton stilled him, again.

"One final thing, Your Grace. Sir Robert Clifford found these among the possessions of the Pretender while he was staying in the home of the Duchess," Morton handed over two dog-eared letters. One from a creditor to a debtor, the other from a father to his son. Pierre Osbeck, and Perkin Warbeck. Henry smiled. Henry smiled like he hadn't smiled for a long time.

"We've got the bastard!" He yelped happily. He could have kissed Morton, but he restrained himself at the last minute. The Archbishop, however, was keen to strike a cautious note.

"Sir Robert has left the Duchess's home, and is now travelling to Flanders where he will be following lines of enquiry. Let us pray that we have, indeed, found the bastard, as Your Grace terms it."

* * *

><p>Elizabeth felt the pangs of labour early. Weeks earlier than expected. She gave birth in her confinement chamber, and it had felt like shelling a pea. Over in what seemed like moments. The tiny scrap of humanity slid effortlessly out in to the world, looking as though she was ready to slide right back out of it, again. But Elizabeth, with Lady Catherine at her side, wrapped little the tiny Princess in a hot towel. They had rubbed her little back. They dripped milk into her mewling, gummy mouth. They had nursed her all through the seemingly endless night, and she lived.<p>

Henry, once again in direct breach of the rules of confinement, had bounded through the doors of Elizabeth's Chambers. All smiles, and tears in his eyes as he held his daughter close to his unshaven face. His eyes bore testament to his sleepless night. No doubt, they'd told him to prepare for the worst. Henry cradled the child lower in his arms, and he turned to the ladies who milled about the Chamber.

"She is a fighter. She is a wild lady of York, and she'll never give in. We'll call her Elizabeth."

Thus the year had closed. The winter chased the sun burned fields of summer away as one season melted into another. The Scottish semi-Royal married the English Pretender, who's real name seemed to be Perkin Warbeck. Princess Elizabeth failed to flourish, but kept on breathing. Traitors were executed. Catherine of York married Sir William Courtenay. Marriages made, and promises kept. New life, replacing the old. Hatched, matched and despatched. The cycle of life revolving ever onwards.


	8. Littel Roses, Big Thorns

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read, and reviewed this story. Your feedback is always greatly appreciated, so thank you once again. The usual disclaimers apply, (I own none of this). Please read and review, thank you!

**Warning,** there is some sweariness (moderate, to strong) in this chapter.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight: Little Roses, Big Thorns.<strong>

The slow hand killed the day, and night had settled over London, but King Henry still sifted through the sheaf of papers that lay at his feet as he tried to relax and work at the same time. In the Royal Apartments, Princess Margaret teased Prince Henry's auburn curls into red ribbons as he slept peacefully in a large chair. Prince Arthur mimicked his father, using his copy books in place of official papers. Princess Elizabeth, as always, lay limp in her nurse's arms. Queen Elizabeth, swollen with child once more, dozed fitfully, her book drooping out of her hands as sleep took a firmer hold of her. King Henry cast a weary over them all before turning back to his papers.

The Pretender, Perkin Warbeck, had recently laid siege to the small Irish town of Waterford, but been repelled by the local women, who threw rotten turnips at his retreating army. Henry held the despatch at arms length, as though uncertain as to what he was seeing was really there. He knew the Pretender had been forced out of Scotland. Just as he had been expelled from France after King Henry placed a trade embargo on the country. English money, it seemed, meant so much more to King Louis than English Pretenders. Satisfied that the increasingly bizarre antics of Perkin Warbeck were not a figment of his imagination, King Henry set that dispatch to one side. He would amuse the council with Warbeck's latest exploits on the morrow.

"Margaret, sweeting, do you really think Prince Henry wants his hair in ribbons?" Henry asked his eldest daughter as her fingers worked nimbly at the Prince's curls. He was beginning to resemble an unconscious hedgehog.

"But, it's pretty-"

The rest of the Princess's reply was cut off by a crash as Queen Elizabeth's book slipped from her hands, and hit a glass that was sat by the side of her chair. She woke with a sudden start and a yelp of shock. Instantaneously, Princess Elizabeth's pitiful wails pierced the air of the apartments as she wailed from within her nursemaid's arms, which made Prince Henry wake up grumpily, and who immediately began shouting about his rather girlie looking new hair do. Prince Arthur, sitting opposite his father at the end of the long, oak table, flashed King Henry a look that told him 'you knew it couldn't last.'

Henry abandoned the paperwork as Elizabeth began, struggling against the weight of her belly, to get to her feet.

"Darling, please, leave it to the nursemaids," He implored her, as he eased her back into the cushioned seat.

"What happened?" She asked, dazed, confused. She'd slipped into a short nap, and awoken to chaos not twenty minutes later. "What's happened to Harry's hair? He looks like a hedgehog."

"I blame Perkin Warbeck," Henry muttered beneath his breath as the children were herded up and escorted to their beds for the night. Prince Henry's mutinous voice could be heard receding down the galleries, but once order was restored, Henry threw himself back into his work.

"What did you say about Warbeck?" Elizabeth asked, her voice was still heavy with the prematurely ended nap she'd taken. As if to emphasise the point, she stifled a yawn.

"Oh, nothing. But, he's been on the move again. Ireland, this time. Even the Irish threw him out on his arse, though," Henry explained. "And King James has been cooing words of peace and reconciliation from across the border, once again."

Elizabeth laughed drily. "I wondered how long it would take the Scots to grow tired of Perky's antics. Tell me, has the King been taking more of an interest in the health and well being of Princess Margaret lately?"

"As a matter of fact, he has!" Henry replied happily. "I think Warbeck will find a lot of blocked avenues, now. I bet even that sour old prune out in Burgundy will think twice before sheltering him, again."

Elizabeth finally struggled to her feet, and began a leisurely waddle around the Chambers. Her heavy gowns flowed in inarticulate folds about her swollen body, meaning she had to mind her step along the way.

"Where is your sister, Catherine? She should be helping you," Henry said, concerned that none of Elizabeth's ladies seemed to be around. They were all lurking in the bed chambers, and reading to the children.

"She has just had a baby of her own, Henry. You know that," She replied, exasperated at just how much he sometimes forgets. "A little boy, named after you. Henry Courtenay. A cousin, at last, for our little ones."

"Sweet," Henry replied, not relishing the thought of yet more chaos and carnage in his private apartments.

"Any word from Isabella and Ferdinand?" Elizabeth asked. "Or are they still concerned about the Pretender?"

"Yes," Henry replied gruffly. "The whole of Europe can see what a fool he is, and so I don't see what the problem is!"

Elizabeth ceased her pacing, and rubbed at her aching back.

"We'd be the same, wouldn't we," She replied. "Just catch him, get the truth out of him, and then we can all move on."

The simple truth is, the Pretender first arrived on the scene over four years before, and had been a constant thorn in Henry's side ever since. It was amusing, sometimes, but mostly, the effect was embarrassment. Everything Warbeck did ended in a humiliating defeat, but despite that, he'd evaded capture. He was like smoke, disappearing into thin air as soon as Henry's men got anywhere near him. But, with ever foreign power that turned it's back on Warbeck, the net closed in that little bit further.

"We will," Henry assured her as he picked up the final despatch of the night. "Have patience."

That final despatch was more bad news, but not bad news that concerned Perkin Warbeck. Henry was pathetically grateful for that alone. An outbreak of violence had been suppressed in Cornwall, but would he, the gracious King, be ever so kind as to send some men at arms down there, anyway. Just in case.

"Gladly," Henry whispered as he added it to his to-do list for the next day. Why can't these people just pay their taxes? He wondered to himself. Less people end up dangling from a hangman's rope, that way.

"Pitch forks at ten paces, was it?" Elizabeth asked as she leaned over his shoulder, but didn't wait for an answer. "Oh, Henry, lets' make this the last, shall we?"

She groaned as she massaged her lower back. She could cope with pretenders, but she was losing her ability to cope with constant pregnancies. They had been lucky. Arthur came first, and banished the dreadful pressure of providing an heir. Then came little Edmund, who died in Henry's arms just days after his birth. Then Margaret, who flourished. She was followed by Edward, who died within days, too. Elizabeth held him, and looked on helplessly through a veil of tears as his life ebbed inexorably away. But Prince Henry came and cured their grief. Princess Elizabeth remained ever weak, but what strength she had, she utilised to full effect and fought and breathed from each day to the next. Now this.

Henry put down the final paper, and abandoned his pretences at work. It could all wait. He got to his feet, and stood behind Elizabeth. It was the only way he could hold her, these days.

"I hate getting you in this state," He confessed. "All the pain. The swollen joints. The daily balancing act. But rest assured, that I, and your country are eternally grateful."

"I'm going into confinement tomorrow," Elizabeth reminded him as she leaned back into his embrace.

"I know," He whined as he nuzzled her throat. "What will I do without you?"

"Suffer!" She laughed good naturedly.

* * *

><p>"Your Grace."<p>

King Henry dropped his quill in surprise, and made the ink run down the smooth vellum page he was about to scrawl his signature on to. He looked up, surprised to hear the young nurse maid's voice so soon, and saw the down turn of the girl's mouth. Saw the apologetic look in her eye as she sunk into a low curtsey. Hesitantly, he got to his feet.

"The Queen?" He asked as he began to fear the worst. "Has something happened to the Queen?"

"The Queen is well, Your Grace. Still no sign of the child, though," the nurse replied as she rose from her curtsey. "However, I was sent to tell you that Princess Elizabeth has fallen sick. The Physicians..." The girl's words trail off into a silence that Henry could easily guess the meaning of.

"She has fallen sick before, though. And pulled through," He explained, not yet willing to bow to the inevitable. Not yet prepared to face the worst. But still, he followed the girl to the Royal Nursery that had been mercifully emptied of the other children. Elizabeth lay thin, paper white, and coated in a soft sheen of sweat in her nurse's arms. She almost shimmered in the glow of the candles.

"Thank you, ladies," Henry said to none of them in particular. They took the hint, though, and carefully deposited the child in his arms before leaving the room.

King Henry looked at Princess Elizabeth. For over two years, she had fought. She stood up. She gasped a few words. She ate of her own accord. She looked up at him with recognition blazing in those clear blue eyes that were so very much like her mother's. But now, now she barely had the strength to move her legs that dangled like snapped strings from between the folds of her swaddling sheets. Her eyes were closed, and a discharge had crusted at the corners. Henry licked the tip of his index finger, and wiped it all away. He smoothed back the damp blond curls from her forehead, and listened to the sound of her final breaths. First, her feeble struggles stopped, closely followed by her heart.

"Your brothers will take care of you, now," Henry whispered in her ear as she died.

He took care to lay her down gently in her cradle, and allowed himself the luxury of a whole hour of pure, unadulterated grief.

* * *

><p>Soon after Princess Elizabeth breathed her last, Princess Mary gasped her first. The shock of one death prompted the start of a new life, and Queen Elizabeth's waters had broken the second she heard the news. She channelled her raw, bitter grief into the contractions that consumed her body. All her anger, sorrow and love went into every push, and every heave to safely deliver her new child. It was never about replacing one child with another. Human lives were not like broken arrows, that could be replaced, or mended. Each passing child left a void in their lives. But the void was lessened, and Princess Mary had to be the most beautiful baby either Queen Elizabeth and King Henry had ever encountered.<p>

She was blue eyed, and auburn haired, just like all the others. But her lips were rosebud red, her skin was like porcelain, and there was not a trace of the dreaded Tudor nose on her. Even poor Prince Harry had had the misfortune to inherit 'the nose', despite being Elizabeth's father in miniature in all other respects.

"Mary," Elizabeth had sighed as she gazed down at the wriggling baby. It sounded right. The name fit like hand in glove.

"Mary," Henry repeated in confirmation. Already, she had taken her place in his heart as his favourite. He knew it was wrong to have favourites, but he knew that he couldn't gaze on this one for long enough. That deserved special recognition. "Thank you, Elizabeth." He added.

"What for?" She asked, the confusion showed in her eyes.

"For all of them," He replied, simply. "For all of our children. Even those that didn't make it."

"Did Elizabeth fight?"

"She did."

"Thats' all I needed to know."

Princess Elizabeth had been buried with all due honours of a Princess of England in the chapel of St Edward the Confessor, in Westminster Abbey. All done properly. All done fittingly. Henry spotted the final midwife darting out of the room and leaving he and Elizabeth alone, and seized the opportunity to lean across the bed and kiss his wife tenderly. He heard her sigh, he saw the way she looked at him, and that flush in her cheek. He then heard the hammering that made the door rattle on it's hinges and scare them both half to death.

"Your Grace!" A voice boomed from the other side. "Your Grace, please!"

"Good God, Henry who is that?" Elizabeth whimpered.

"I'll wring his fucking neck!" Henry hissed as he threw himself on to the door before wrenching it open. "What in the name of God do you think you're playing at?"

The Archbishop of Canterbury ignored the King's furious outburst, and pulled him into the outer gallery so they could argue privately.

"An army of rebel soldiers has assembled in Cornwall," He blurted out. "They have amassed at sundry points, and thousands are flocking to their banners. They're marching on London as we speak."

Henry's anger vanished in an instant. Replaced by a barely controlled panic. "Where are they? How far from the capital?"

"Twenty miles, Your Grace," Morton answered, his face highly coloured. "That is not all. They have the Pretender, Perkin Warbeck, at their head. They've formally recognised him as their King."

King Henry's thoughts swirled as they all converged on one another. He tried to move in several directions at once. He tried to say a hundred things at once. In the end, he was struck mute and dumb with shock. Not at the events. He had half expected that. But the damn timing. The tell tale burning at the back of his throat was the first warning, and seconds later he was retching violently into an ornamental vase that stood outside the Queen's confinement Chamber. A gift from his mother.

Bishop Morton, having had time to absorb the shock, mumbled words of encouragement to the King before wheeling around, and preparing to rally the Court into action. Henry stood dazed, vague thoughts of armour and horses finally forming in his mind.


	9. The Sun In Splendour

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the reviews, it is very much appreciated. Thanks to everyone who's read the story. The usual disclaimers apply, and I own nothing. Please read and review, thank you again.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nine: The Sun In Splendour.<strong>

Queen Elizabeth ignored the aches all over her body as she scrambled out of the bed, and shouldered one of Henry's old hunting cloaks on over her night things. It was all her servant could find in her other chambers. All of her ladies in waiting were rushing to and from the confinement chamber, rounding up the children, hastily packing bags and carting great trunks of luggage out to the barge that was now waiting in the Palace harbour to take them all to the Tower of London. She knew she didn't have time to ask questions, or get the full story, so she didn't even attempt to catch up with Henry himself. Instead, she grabbed everything that she could carry, and did her best to get everyone out of the Palace.

When Henry fist returned to her, and told her she and the children were to be moved immediately, she had hoped it was some sort of jest. Hopes dashed by the tolling of the warning bells right across the City. Henry then vanished down the outer galleries, and he hadn't even the time to kiss his new daughter good bye. But, Elizabeth had no time to dwell on that. Arthur, Margaret, and Harry appeared in the doorway of her Chamber, reluctantly following their nursemaids. They had only seen their mother dressed as the Queen of England, before. Now, they were seeing her in a night shift with an man's old hunting cloak thrown over it. No wonder they didn't seem to recognise her.

"Children," Elizabeth addressed them all as she knelt before them to speak on their level. "You must all be very brave, and very well behaved, and go with your nurses to the barge outside. You will go to Grandam Beaufort's, and collect her from Baynard's Castle, then she will go with you all to the Tower. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mama," They chorused in unison. Each of their faces was as completely uncomprehending as the other.

"Mother, what is happening? Why is papa in armour, again?" Arthur, who neared ten now, was taking in a lot more than his brother and sister. "Is there another war happening?"

"There is no time to explain, darling. Do as you are told," She commanded him a little more sternly than she had intended. She felt bad for it, but the whole Palace, the whole of London, had been plunged into chaos in the space of a second.

"What about you, mama?" Prince Harry asked, his eyes shone with tears as he looked at her. He was trembling. He was the one child who'd never registered fear before, no matter what was happening.

"I will join you very soon, I promise. I must stay and prepare your new baby sister for her journey," Elizabeth explained, forcing herself to be patient and explain to the terrified child. She didn't even know if the children had been told about Mary, yet.

After a final hug and kiss form their mother, the children were herded away by the nurses. Elizabeth watched them as they were swallowed by the crowds outside her chambers. She watched, with tears in her eyes, as history repeated itself, once again.

* * *

><p>King Henry reached the Tower just as the guns and canons were being wheeled out to protect the City. The citizens had risen to the occasion magnificently. They had grabbed whatever weapons that came to hand, from humble wooden staves, to swords and battle axes that had come from God knows where; and Henry wasn't about to start asking questions now. They were prepared for a siege, but God knows what would happen if the siege dragged on for more than even just a few days. There was no record of how much food had been stockpiled, and it would be only a matter of days before the weaker of Henry's subjects began to die.<p>

Henry, as soon as he arrived in the City, ordered every ship to sail down the Thames, and ensure that no enemy boats had the opportunity to place a blockade on the river. The Thames was one supply line into London that Henry simply could not afford to lose.

Every soldier, every man at arms, and even the young apprentices had come flocking out to support him, and to do their bit to defend, not just London, but the Country as a whole. Outriders had been sent all over the south, the fastest horsemen in the City offering their services free of charge, to spread the news, and defend the coasts from potential foreign attacks, especially should the French get any funny ideas.

"They don't have a hope, Your Grace," John De Vere, Earl of Oxford, spoke confidently as he watched the City mobilize like a well oiled printing press.

"I know they don't," Henry replied. "But that's not the point, John. I want him. This ends now."

"We'll get the bastard. Oh! Here's the Queen's barge," De Vere pointed in the distance. The sound of drummers and trumpeters heralded the arrival of Queen Elizabeth's retinue, and he could just see her standing at the prow of the vessel, one hand shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun as she scanned the crowds, looking for him, for anyone who could help her.

"Henry!" She called out as the barge moored at the small jetty before the Tower steps. He nudged his old war horse into motion, and cantered over to meet her. He could have laughed at the sight of her wearing his old hunting coat.

"Darling, where are the children?" He had refused to set foot beyond the City walls until he'd heard of his family's safe arrival at the Tower.

"They have arrived with your mother," She explained as the boatman helped her to disembark. A small gaggle of Ladies followed at her heels. "Go on inside, and take the baby with you. I must speak with the King before I join you." She instructed them.

"Try not to be afraid, Bess," Henry said, once they were alone. "This isn't the same as before. This is not the old days."

"It looks like it from where I'm standing, though," She answered, keeping her voice low as he dismounted. "Henry, please be careful."

"You know I will," Henry tilted her chin up to take one final look at her before he rode out to meet the rebel army. "I give you my word, in exchange for your blessing."

"You always have that," She whispered as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in closer for a goodbye kiss, as they both ignored the crowds of people who openly stared at them. The King and Queen of England, standing in the shadow of the Tower, and kissing as the pandemonium reached fever pitch.

An 'I love you' whispered in unison into each other's ears, and they parted. Henry back in the saddle, and Elizabeth through the doors of the Tower, to their children and a semblance of faked normality. He turned away from the battlements of the Tower, and slipped effortlessly into fighting mode.

"Form up!" The command rang out as the vast royal army fell into formation behind their King and the Earl of Oxford. Within moments, the air all around them was filled with the sound of thousands of marching feet.

* * *

><p>An hour's march, and the first outriders of the rebel army came into view. A rag tag army of rough shod farmers, mercenaries who'd come from God knows where, and just a few liveried retainers from Yorkist sympathisers from the south of England. Henry made a note of them all. The De La Poles' were prominent among them, and he spent a moment just pricing up that family's lands. A pretty penny for the Crown once this was all over, and the Attainder was drawn up against them.<p>

Another banner caught Henry's eye, and he nudged the Earl of Oxford, and pointed it out. It was easily the biggest of the lot, and bore the three suns of York. The Sun in Splendour. The device of King Edward IV. Beneath the banner, a golden haired man rode a huge white Destrier horse. Perkin Warbeck.

"That has to be him," Henry muttered low to De Vere.

"Thats' him all right," De Vere replied. "God's death, I am sick of this already. I want to go home."

"Let's get this over with," Henry agreed, and gave the Earl the nod to kick things off.

With that, De Vere turned to the amassed troops that had assembled behind them, and bellowed out the command to open fire. Henry, picking up the cue, reacted seamlessly to De Vere's command and led the charge immediately as the cannons exploded through the air. The enemy scattered like rats beneath the first wave of defence, giving them no time to organise their attack.

Henry pulled tight on his horse's reins, stunned by how easily the rebel army's ranks were broken. Moments later, and De Vere had done the same, coming to rest at King Henry's side as the army charged onwards, straight into the heart of the rebel's formation.

"D'you know, Your Grace, I think we'll be home in time for supper," The Earl casually remarked as a small volley of arrows sailed in their direction from the rebels. Henry could tell right away that they would fall far short of their target. His eye followed their progress as they slammed into the damp earth, all the way up to their quivers.

"Yes. I was thinking, I might take Elizabeth and the children down to Windsor for a few days, after this," Henry replied, equally as casual but voice raised over the blast of the Royal cannons. "Oh! They've missed, again." He nodded to the rebels as another pitiful flight of arrows soared briefly in a high arc, before landing in the middle of the no man's land that separated the two camps of archers. De Vere let out a bark of laughter. But, for all their easy banter, they both watched Warbeck, struggling to fight under the great Yorkist banner, like hawks.

"Windsor's lovely this time of year," De Vere opined as the enemy at last realised their day was lost. Every single rebel turned on their heels, and ran for their lives. "God's death, Henry, lets just bloody get that bastard Warbeck, and end this sorry farce, before someone actually gets hurt."

Without further prompting, Henry kicked hard at the flanks of his war horse, and charged straight in Warbeck's direction. For a moment, Warbeck looked up, and the two men's eyes met across the battle field, through the mass of fleeing rebels and advancing royal soldiers. Without hesitation, Warbeck abandoned his army, and fled alone on horseback.

* * *

><p>Elizabeth gazed lingeringly over the rooms that she and the children had commandeered in the Tower. Damp trickled in rivulets down the dingy stone walls. Their footsteps echoed, and the warmth of spring was blotted out by the eight feet thick ramparts that protected the fortress from outside attack. It was why they were here. It was the safest place in London.<p>

The younger children cowered as the lions in the menagerie roared. Margaret, after a scream from the dungeons rent the air outside their chambers, had looked up at her mother, and asked: "Is this a place for sick people, mama? I can hear a man shouting." Elizabeth never relished lying to the children, but now was not the time to tell them everything that happened between these walls, and it took some persuasion to convince Margaret that she'd only heard the wind blowing through the rafters.

However, it was Prince Henry who had been most affected by the Tower. He was silent, pale, and shaking violently as his grandmother coaxed him through the corridors, and into his temporary home. Arthur, as usual, took it all in his stride. He sat where told to sit, and remained in place, speaking only when spoken to.

"It won't be for long," Margaret Beaufort assured her as they all finally settled into the Royal Apartments. "The rebels were only a few miles from London, so Henry and his men will have met them by now. We will soon have news."

Elizabeth excused herself to attend the Chapel within the Tower. She wanted to give thanks for the birth of Princess Mary, and to pray for her husband's speedy return. As she and her attendants walked the grim passages over to the Wakefield Tower, a number of different scenarios ran through her head. She feared the worst. That Henry would be killed. But what if he was only crippled? Or maimed? Or died a slow lingering death? What would she tell the children? How would Arthur cope as King of England at just ten years old? All the unanswerable questions chased themselves in circles around her mind, and gave her no peace, even as she knelt with her head bowed in prayer and the minutes ticked into hours.

"Your Grace," Bishop Morton's voice intruded upon Elizabeth's private meditations.

"Archbishop Morton," She greeted him as she rose stiffly back to her feet. "What news?"

"The King crushed the rebellion-"

"Then he is home?" She cut across the Archbishop, not waiting for him to finish speaking. "We can return to the Palace?"

"Not quite," Morton replied as he stepped into the small chapel and slid into a pew. Elizabeth expertly hid her bitter disappointment. "The King gave chase to the Pretender who tried to flee the scene of the battle as soon as the Royal Army opened fire on the rebel forces. He was last seen riding south."

"Where?" She demanded, the panic raising her voice an octave higher than normal. "Where has he gone? Do you mean to say he is by himself, chasing a dangerous criminal?"

Elizabeth's mental images of Henry maimed and killed on the battlefield, are swiftly replaced by images of outlaws, bandits, thieves, and murderers who haunt England's roads and country lanes in the dead of night. Plenty could happen on a battlefield, but it was nothing compared to what could happen in lawless, rural England.

"No, the Earl of Oxford is with him," Morton assured her. "And one or two other men at arms. They didn't have time to assemble a proper guard, and frankly, they'll be all the faster without one. Do not fear, Your Grace. All will be well. The King will be home soon, I am sure."

All anyone ever said to Elizabeth was 'fear not', and it was all very well for those who didn't have to endure their loved ones riding out into battle to defend their families, lives, and loved ones. Nevertheless, she smiled her Queen of England smile as the archbishop bowed out of her presence, and back into the twisting maze of the Tower. Elizabeth turned back to the high altar, head bowed in silent prayer once more.

* * *

><p>They gave chase across the open country, and churned up the freshly ploughed fields, making the workers curse into their slip stream. The King and Earl chased the Pretender into the setting sun, like two hounds on the scent of a rabbit. Through villages, hamlets and towns. They tore up the side streets, sent unsuspecting citizens reeling in their wake as they dived out of the way of the approaching horses. Unaware of who was on the horse, the people hurled insults, and some even tried to stop the King, thinking he was a criminal trying to escape the local justices.<p>

Every delay saw the Warbeck pull that little bit further ahead of them. But, like men possessed, the King and Earl urged their wearying horses ever onwards, and the gap closed enough for the Earl to demand their quarry pull up and dismount immediately. Henry was close enough to see the whites of Warbeck's eyes every time he looked over his shoulder. He knew that Warbeck's game was finally up.

"Abbey!" De Vere shouted over the noise of the wind that rushed furiously in their ears.

"What?"

"The Abbey!"

Henry saw what the Earl was referring to. The Pretender headed straight for the Abbey that was situated a quarter of a mile up the road they were on, and dismounted just beyond the gates. Wasting no time, he made a run for the consecrated buildings, and threw himself through the doors. De Vere swore heavily as he heaved on the reins of his horse, but Henry ignored him. He kept his exhausted horse going until, he too, was through the gates of the Abbey.

"We cannot break the law of Sanctuary, Your Grace," De Vere gasped, out of breath, as he finally caught the King up.

"We'll wait for as long as it takes," Henry replied firmly. "I am not giving up now."

"Who's there?" An angry voice, coming from behind a small blob of bobbing light that was moving across the front entrance of the Abbey. As the lantern got closer, Henry could make out the under-lit features of a middle aged monk dressed in a rough woollen habit of the Franciscan order.

"His Grace, the King of England-"

"Of course, I should have known!" The monk let out a bark of mirthless laughter. Henry and the Earl exchanged a look.

"Listen, father, I know this is a little … unexpected … but I need that man who has claimed Sanctuary, badly," Henry explained. "Can you please relay a message to him, and tell him that we can sort this out?"

"Tell him, also, that no one will get hurt. We just want to bring him to London, to answer a few questions," De Vere added from the behind the King.

"And take a little something for your troubles, father," Henry said as he removed his gauntlet and pulled a ring from his finger. It was a plain gold wedding band that had belonged to his own father, Edmund Tudor, who'd died before he was born.

"Thank you, my son, and may God bless you," The sight of the gold seemed to have reminded the monk of his Christian duty. They waited patiently, grateful to out of the chase, and off the horses, until the monk returned twenty minutes later.

"He told me to tell you that he is only claiming his birthrights, and that he is the lawful King of England, and you are a usurper and a tyrant," He explained. "So, you really are the King, then? And he's the Pretender we've all been hearing about?"

De Vere had to physically hold Henry back, stopping him from barging into the Abbey and dragging the Pretender out by the hair.

"Patience, Your Grace," De Vere cooed softly in Henry's ear. "Father, go back in there, and order him out here to answer for his conduct, or face eternal damnation."

"Your Grace!" The monk sounded scandalised.

"Drag him out, or I'll burn him out!" Henry snapped furiously.

The monk turned and shuffled off back into the darkness, towards the lights of the Abbey in the distance. More monks appeared and lit the torches that were set in brackets at the gate posts, and they found themselves in a pool of flickering yellow light. Silently, the paced, tension crackled and Henry read the signs over the gate to try and fill the time. Beaulieu Abbey. Henry stopped, and looked back towards the Abbey. The monk finally reappeared, followed closely by a young, golden haired man, dressed in cloth of gold, like a mock King.

Henry stood drawn up to his full height, and looked the man in the eye. A smile spread slowly across his face.

* * *

><p>That night, at the Tower, Elizabeth herself stood guard as her two Prince's slept peacefully in their shared bed. She hovered, restless, sleepless and anxious, and never turned her eyes from their sleeping forms for one moment. She jumped at small noises, and her hand gripped a dagger tucked into her pomander. She knew she was being irrational, and she could hear the crunch of the boots of the professional guards not six feet away. But, the other two Princes were guarded, too. Guards could turn the other way. Guards could be bribed.<p>

Smaller, softer footsteps approached from behind, and Elizabeth wheeled around and found herself staring into the tired, wrinkled faced of Margaret Beaufort. Margaret said nothing, she didn't have to anything. She simply linked her twig thin arm through Elizabeth's, and together they watched over the children.


	10. Hopes, Fears, and Tears

**Author's Note:** Thank you for all the reviews, I really appreciate all the feedback I get so thank you! As ever, I just want to state that I don't own any characters, events, or history. Please read and review, thank you.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Ten: Hopes, Fears, and Tears.<strong>

"Why don't you kill me, Henry?" Warbeck asked from across the small space of his prison cell in the Tower. "Mine wouldn't be the only royal blood on your hands, would it?"

King Henry showed no reaction at all. He leaned back on his chair, and regarded Warbeck coolly. For years now, the two of them had led each other on a wild goose chase across the Europe, England, Scotland, and Ireland. A game of cat and mouse, each daring the other to make the next move, and all the time Henry waited patiently for the right time to pounce. Henry felt that he could afford to be patient, now that he finally had the Pretender where he wanted him.

"Do you really think that I'm that stupid?" Henry finally spoke, careful to keep his tone even. "Oh, I have plans for you, Master Warbeck … or whatever your name is."

"My name, in case you were wondering, is Richard Plantagenet. First Duke of York, first Earl of Norfolk, and Earl Marshal of England. Thanks for asking."

Henry hadn't asked, but he was happy to let that slide. He glanced across the room, to where the Archbishop of Canterbury was taking notes with his young assistant at his side. He wanted to be sure that all of this was being taken down. Behind Henry, stood Sir Robert Clifford, newly recalled from the Continent where his investigations had just come to an end. Henry nodded to him, signalling for him to hit the pretender with the evidence he'd gathered.

"I spoke to your father, Jehan Warbeck," Sir Robert chipped in from the shadows of the cell. "He was most interested to hear how you were getting on. Especially with all that money he gave to you, to pay off your debts. Pretending to be a King is not cheap, is it?"

Warbeck ignored him. From the moment Sir Robert had made his presence, as well as his true allegiance known, Warbeck had decided to simply affect deafness whenever he spoke. So, Warbeck merely turned to glower at the cracks in the old Tower walls. Sir Robert pressed on.

"You know, it was highly convenient you turning up straight after the death of Elizabeth Woodville. The one woman who could truly have exposed your little charade as the farce that it is," He stated matter of factly. "Still, your real parents, sadly I realise that your mother died recently, were more than happy to help. I have seen the records of your birth, and of your education. Your father is a boatman from Flanders, isn't he?"

Silence. Warbeck slowly turned from the walls, and looked King Henry directly in the eye. Henry looked back unflinchingly. The moment drew out as they measured each other up, as though they were locked in a silent contest of wills. To the left of Henry's elbow, a candle began to gutter and spit as the molten wax bled into the flame.

"Get these replaced, would you Archbishop?" Henry asked. "I knew I should have brought fresh ones."

Warbeck watched as the Archbishop vanished behind the door, and reappeared a few minutes later with a woman, dressed in a plain gown, but with her distinctive blond hair loose about her shoulders. She ducked a low curtsey to the King as the archbishop resumed his seat. She made a fuss over the candlestick, before reaching into the pocket of her white apron to replace the candles. All the while, Henry scrutinised Warbeck's face as Warbeck in turn watched the servant woman with something like lust in his eyes. Once she was done, the girl curtseyed low again.

"Your Grace," She murmured as she rose to face Warbeck. "I trust that the prisoner has everything he needs?" She asked, causing him to look directly at her.

"Everything is well done, thank you," Henry answered for him without turning his gaze from Warbeck. Otherwise, Henry ignored the servant completely.

He waited until the woman's footsteps had receded down the corridor outside before he continued again.

"So, tell me. Once your life had been spared, and you were out of England, what happened then? I knew Elizabeth Woodville, and she wouldn't just let her son, an heir to the throne, go freely wandering about the Continent."

"She didn't know that I had escaped. Like I said, Richard explained the situation to her, and probably led her to believe I was dead," He explained. The words had rolled from his tongue as smoothly as could be. He spoke impeccably, and his story rarely wavered. They'd spent hours going over and over it again. "I know that you're trying to trip me up, Henry. Thats' why I suggested you kill me, because you know I won't slip up, and you know that I am Richard, Duke of York. The rightful King of England."

Henry, the Archbishop, and Sir Robert Clifford all looked up at one another. A pulse of silent agreement beat through them all as their eyes met from their respective vantage points. Henry looked back across the table at Warbeck, with the faintest of smiles on his face.

"So, who in this cell do you recognise from your childhood?" He asked, and leaned across the desk towards Warbeck. "Anybody at all?"

"Of course not! You're all Lancastrians," He guffawed. Archbishop Morton smiled as he noted down the answer. He, himself, had been at the Court of Edward IV. "You were all in exile."

"What about the servant woman who just changed our candles?" Henry asked, nodding to the spot were the woman had stood. "Was she familiar, at all?"

"Of course not! We had thousands of servants, how am I to be expected to remember just one?" Warbeck laughed incredulously. Henry waited patiently for him to fall back into silence before springing the trap.

"Because she was no servant. She was your sister," Henry stated calmly. Warbeck gasped as though he'd been winded.

"What am I thinking?" Henry laughed as he gathered up his papers and rose to his feet. "Queen Elizabeth is no more your sister, than Christ is your father!"

King Henry turned and swept from the room, leaving Warbeck reeling in the corner of the cell. The Archbishop and Sir Robert Clifford, who turned to give the Pretender one last look of disdain, followed suit. Clifford paused at the door, however, and addressed Warbeck directly, ignoring the guards who were keen to get the man sealed safely up again.

"If I were you, I would admit your true identity, and go as a commoner. Carry on this farce, and you'll go as the true traitor you are, and I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."

* * *

><p>The ceremony was brief. Dr Roderigo De Puebla stood as a proxy for the Infanta, and Arthur stood proudly, representing himself with every ounce of dignity and deportment that he could muster. He swore to take Catalina, the Infanta, as his wife in the eyes of God. De Puebla did the same in Catalina's name. Then, it was done. The betrothal concluded, and a collective sigh of relief and happiness rippled about the Presence Chamber.<p>

Throughout, Queen Elizabeth gripped Henry's hand as she watched her eldest take a giant leap into adulthood, with tears in her eyes. She knew that Henry shared her pride, her sadness at letting her child fly the nest, and her hopes for the future that all mingled together to form one seething mass of conflicting emotions. Soon, he would be sent to Ludlow, to learn the art of Kingship, and be prepared to seamlessly take up the reins of state as soon as his father had passed away. It was Henry's most bitter regret, that he would never live to see the day that Arthur fulfilled his destiny.

As soon as the lawyers, witnesses and officials had swept from the room, and Arthur was left alone with his parents, Henry embraced him close.

"You're as good as married, now," He stated, biting back the emotion in his voice. Elizabeth tried to speak, but could only manage a coking sound from somewhere deep within her chest.

"I know, father. When can I meet Catherine?" He asked, almost bouncing with excitement. "Maybe she and her family could come for a state visit. It does happen, sometimes?"

"Steady on, Arthur!" Elizabeth cautioned, but smiled wide all the same as she took her turn to hug and kiss the boy. "You must be patient, and soon Catherine will come to join us."

"I cannot even imagine what it must be like in Spain," Arthur sighed wistfully. "Didn't you go there, father? When you … Uhm … lived abroad?" He was trying to find the polite word for "exile".

"Not quite, Arthur," Henry replied. "I was in Brittany. Not quite Grenada. But write to her, and get to know her. Now, run along so your grandmother can make a big fuss of you."

Arthur flushed. He hated anyone making a fuss of him, but he made no protestations. He swept a low, graceful bow to his parents, and backed reluctantly from the Presence Chamber. Once he was gone, Elizabeth let herself sag against Henry's side as they strolled out into the Privy Gardens.

Beneath the warm summer sun, the white roses, as well as the red, blossomed brightly. Fat buds of colour that shone against the emerald lawns. They attracted the bees, who would make the honey, to keep the hive keepers in business. Butterflies flitted lazily, and birds chirruped noisily from the swaying boughs of the trees that lined the paths that wended through the gardens. All around them, life burned and blazed in the continuous cycle of nature.

"What next for the Pretender, Henry?" Elizabeth asked, her arm was linked through his as they sat at a secluded bench beneath an arched trellis that sagged with the weight of the creeping vines that grew up and around it.

"He is going on a little tour," Henry answered. "He is reading out his confession at St Paul's, and a few other places, admitting that he made it all up. Then, at the end, he is to go to Tyburn, and be hanged as the commoner he is."

"Then, is shall be over," Elizabeth sighed as she closed her eyes, her head rested against Henry's shoulder.

They fell into a contented silence beneath the shade of the trellis. Together, they listened to the buzz of the insects, and watched the fluttering darts of colour as they flicked from one ripe flower to the next. Henry, however, soon felt the burning, unasked question roaming to the forefront of his mind again. He'd been daring himself to ask ever since Elizabeth had posed as a servant woman, and entered the Pretender's cell. Now seemed as gooder time as any to ask.

"So, did Warbeck actually resemble your brother?" He asked, trying to keep his tone light, and casual. But all the same, his heart slammed against his ribs, and his mouth ran dry. To his surprise, Elizabeth did not stir. She remained poised, with her head against his shoulder and her eyes closed in contentment.

"No," She answered softly. "No. Richard took after my uncle, Anthony Woodville. He had dark hair, like him. His looks came from my mother's father's side of the family. That man looked a little like my father, the King. But only a little. Warbeck is no brother of mine."

Henry was glad that Elizabeth kept her eyes closed. It afforded him the luxury of looking immensely relieved. All the same, he craned his neck back to see her properly, and kissed her forehead, knocking her hood askew. "It is over, now." He stated blandly.

* * *

><p>For the rest of the summer, they searched the Tower. No bones came up, except animal bones. It was the one final piece of the puzzle that would have irrevocably proved Warbeck for the Pretender that King Henry believed him to be. It was the final piece of evidence that meant no other man could do what Warbeck did.<p>

Reluctantly, as the summer died fast and winter closed in, King Henry called off the search. Warbeck had attempted an escape, and keeping him alive was proving to be unsettling for the government, and the country at large. It was only a matter of time before disaffected malcontent's tried to rebel in his name. So, as December began, so did Perkin Warbeck's last stand.

Crowds of curious onlookers had gathered in St Paul's to hear him read aloud the confession of his guilt, and of his treachery. Thousands lined the processional route to Tyburn. Wide eyed, and blood thirsty, they watched from houses, rooftops, and from the streets as he passed. Shoulders slumped in defeat, and looking none of the King he wished to be.

He mounted the wooden steps, up to the scaffold which had been built twice the usual height. None of the spectators would go home disappointed. They would all have a good view of the Pretender going to his death. He didn't flinch as the noose was fitted around his neck, and the stool upon which he stood was kicked from under his bare feet made black by the long, final walk to his death. From the end of the rope, Perkin Warbeck choked his final breaths as his writhing body was blown by the winds, until he fell quite still.


	11. Transitions

**Author's Note:** Thanks again for the reviews, it's great to get everyone's feedback. Again, I own none of the characters, events, and certainly not the history. Thanks again, and please read and review.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eleven: Transitions.<strong>

Queen Elizabeth set down her pen, and blew the ink on the parchment dry before reading it over one final time. Once she was satisfied that she'd informed the Infanta of everything she needed to know about life in England, she affixed her seal to the letter, and handed it to her Chamberlain with a smile. She had remembered to tell Catalina about the dreadful, undrinkable water in England, the cold weather, and the almost constant rain. However, she had been keen to talk up the manifold good points, too. That, naturally, she and all her family were on tenterhooks waiting for her arrival, which would be spectacular, and that the English people were desperate to see her, too. The letter, despatched by the fastest rider, would be waiting for Catalina when she got off the boat at Rochester.

"I really do feel like I am gaining a new daughter, and not losing a son," Elizabeth told her new chief Lady in Waiting, once the Chamberlain had conveyed the letter away. Lady Katherine Gordon, widow of the Pretender, looked up at the Queen, and smiled.

"She is lucky to be coming here to your Court, Your Grace," She answered, and set aside her needlework so she and the Queen could take the air in the private gardens that lay beyond the Privy Chamber's walls. "She will find it much different to Spain, though."

"I've been worried about that," Elizabeth confessed as they stepped, newly wrapped in their furs, into the chilly autumnal air. "What if she does not like it here? I know that she has no choice, but I still so want this to be her home from home. Her adoptive nation."

"And she will!" Lady Katherine gave a light hearted laugh, assuring the Queen that she was worrying over nothing. "Prince Arthur is the sweetest, gentlest Prince in all Christendom. She could ask for no better husband in him."

Elizabeth forced a nervous smile, and looked around at the bare garden. The flower beds, where the roses usually blossomed, were bitten with a hard layer of frost. Bare green stalks jutted from the frozen ground, relieved of the fat summer blossoms. Even the arched trellis was bare, with a scant few withering weeds adhering to the frame. Elizabeth turned her face to the western horizon, where the sun still blazed in the crisp skies as it dipped, and gave way to the oncoming night.

"I hope Henry gets home soon," She sighed as she thought of him stuck somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Alone through the bitter cold nights, with just a few grooms to aid him. "Surely, He and Arthur are nearing London, by now?"

"I am certain of it, Your Grace," Lady Katherine smiled again as she kept in line with the Queen as they strolled about the gardens, watching their step in the ice patches. Elizabeth glanced sidelong at Lady Katherine, and weighed up her next words carefully.

"Listen to me prattling on about my husband!" She began with an apologetic smile. "I know that what your husband did caused a lot of upset here, and none of that was your doing. But, you must miss him all the same? It's been almost four years to the day, since he died."

The subject of Perkin Warbeck had been an ominous, unspoken, looming presence at the backs of both their minds. Elizabeth had surprised herself, however, by taking quickly to Lady Katherine. She came to the English court in the wake of the rebellion, as a prisoner in all but name, who's fate looked bleak. But they talked, and they drank, and danced. By the end of Lady Katherine's first evening, she'd been appointed to Queen Elizabeth's own household. There was something in Lady Katherine that Elizabeth had never quite been able to articulate, and had never been able to bring herself to mention. However, the passage of time had wrought it's path, and finally, Elizabeth felt able to try and breech the subject.

"I was only his wife. I hardly saw him," Katherine answered. Like all women, she'd had no choice in her husband, nor did she have any choice but to suffer for his sins. "But, here I am. Good can come of anything, even Perkin Warbeck."

"I was surprised, at first, by how well we got on," Elizabeth confessed as she motioned for Katherine to sit awhile, so they could look at the spots where flowers should be. "But now I see it clearly. You and I, we are the same in many ways."

"You think so?"

"When I was seventeen, I was as good as married to Henry. We were formally betrothed, like Arthur and Catalina are now," Elizabeth explained after a pause to organise her thoughts. "Although I'd never met Henry, and I didn't know if I could ever love him, our destinies were intertwined. When he sailed into St Anne's, and took to the field at Bosworth, my fate was in his hands. Just like you, with your husband, everything was riding on the outcome of one military engagement. But, I was lucky, and you were not."

Lady Katherine sat, her eyes still fixed upon the empty rose beds, as she gathered her thoughts. She nodded her head, and bit back the tears that were threatening to overwhelm her.

"Thank you, Your Grace." She could say no more words, but she could still thank her lucky stars. "It is the lot that all women of our station endure, whether they want it or not." She added.

Elizabeth reached over and squeezed Katherine's hand. "Let's go back inside, and warm some wine to drink," She suggested.

* * *

><p>King Henry, with Prince Arthur in tow, arrived home from Ludlow, sat down for what seemed a few minutes, and began preparing to ride out all over again. He kissed his apologies to his wife and younger children, and ordered the servants to prepare the horses, yet again, after decided to have mercy on Arthur and agreeing to ride out to Rochester to meet the new Princess of Wales, to escort her back to London.<p>

"It will only be a few days," He promised Elizabeth one final time. "It is Arthur. He heard about the storms. He is beside himself with worry, so I told him we could meet Catalina coming off the boat."

Elizabeth glanced across the Privy Chamber to where Prince Arthur leaned out of the great bay windows, arm outstretched, testing the strength of the winds that blew out doors.

"Arthur, come back inside, you'll catch a chill," Elizabeth warned, her voice rang shrill across the chamber, making the young man jump and the window snap shut with a bang that made Princess Mary shriek.

"It's no good, Arthur. The strength of the wind in the middle of London is no indication of the strength of the winds at sea," Henry gently explained, knowing he was snatching some small comfort from the Prince. "We're leaving now, anyway. You'll see her, and she will be fine."

Arthur, pale and jittery as a soldier bracing himself for battle, stepped away from the window and glanced nervously about the Privy Chamber. To give him something to do, Henry dismissed him to help prepare the horses for their journey.

"Have the storms been as bad as all that?" Elizabeth asked as Henry pulled his riding cloak back on.

"They had to turn back at one point," He replied. "God, that happened to me once. Coming over from France to help the Duke of Buckingham's rebellion against your uncle. Storms so bad, we barely made it out of port, never mind all the way to England. The Infanta, God help her, has had to endure twice as much."

Elizabeth's expression softened as she thought of the Infanta, hurled across the seas on the back of a tempest, all the way to a foreign shore, to a climate and culture so very different to what she was accustomed.

"You'll bring her home to us safely. I know you will," She raised a weak smile as she gave her blessing. "No wonder poor Arthur is so worried. God speed, both of you."

* * *

><p>"You can't go in there!"<p>

The woman's accent made her speech almost indecipherable, but Henry got the gist from the scandalised look on her face. Her eyes were like saucers, her lips drawn tight and white. She stood across the entrance to the pavilion like a dropped portcullis, blocking his entry, and his view of the interior. Maybe this Spanish lady did not understand him, so he repeats his name and title.

"I am Henry, King of England, and we must see the Infanta. This is her husband!" He points to Prince Arthur, still mounted on his horse, but struck dumb with nerves. His gaze flickers between his father, and the woman, who still blocks the entry like a raised drawbridge.

"I am Dona Elvira, and I have been sent by King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella to guard the Infanta's honour, Sir," She barks back in King Henry's face, her eyes not once left his as she met his match. "You must wait until the Prince's wedding day, and not a moment sooner!"

King Henry, his temper like a lit fuse, snapped around at Arthur and commanded him to dismount at once.

"Forgive me, madam," Henry, forcing some measure of calm into his voice, turned back to Dona Elvira. "But, you are in my Kingdom, now, and subject to English law and custom. The Prince of Wales, and I, would like to enquire with the Infanta directly."

Prince Arthur tried to flash the horrified woman an apologetic smile as they finally shoved her aside and entered the pavilion in which the Infanta was due to spend the night. The moment they set foot in the tent, a cry went up, and a flurry of activity broke out as a horde of women bustled about the bed, and hastily made the Infanta decent. When they drew apart, a small, slender girl who's face was obscured by a fine veil, materialised from the heart of the knot. Slowly, she sank into a deep curtsey, her head bowed low.

"Your Grace." Her voice, like the others, was heavily accented.

Henry could feel Prince Arthur, trembling from head to toe, at his side. He looked down at the top of the Infanta's veiled head, and stepped forwards to help her rise.

"Welcome, to my Kingdom, Your Grace. My son, and I, are most relieved to see you here, safe, and well," Henry spoke softly, a little slower lest she should have trouble understanding. Evidently, she did, as another lady stepped forwards, and immediately began speaking in rapid Spanish, only bits of which Henry could make out. She was translating. Catalina answered her, and the lady turned to the King, and spoke falteringly.

"Your Grace, I am honoured to be finally in your presence, and in England," She interpreted. "Forgive my bad English, but I am learning fast, and will soon be confident enough to speak with you directly."

As she finished, a silence fell in the pavilion tent. A silence occasionally punctuated by the sound of Arthur shifting from one foot to the other, and the ladies rustling in their gowns as they knelt uncomfortably. Henry heaved a sigh of impatience, and stepped forwards to lift Catalina's veil.

"Forgive my impertinence, but we must see her face," He explained apologetically to the room at large.

Catalina's hands moved, and she lifted the fine muslin veil herself. Henry tried to suppress the gasp of shock as he looked at her properly for the first time. Behind him, Prince Arthur blushed crimson to the roots of his hair. The Infanta's face was round, her eyes bright blue, and her hair was a rich auburn. Neither he, nor Arthur had expected such beauty. She looked back at them both, with those piercingly beautiful eyes, her expression one of curious perplexity.

"I... I.. hope that I please you," Catalina stammered in broken English as her gaze darted between her father in law, and her husband.

Prince Arthur lurched forwards and doubled over in a clumsy bow, and kissed the girl's hand trembling hand. His jaw flapped helplessly as he struggled to find some suitable reply. Henry suspected his presence in the room was not exactly helping, and even he, for the first time in his married life, had to remind himself that he did indeed have a wife.

"Well, Your Grace," Henry clapped his hands and smiled around cheerfully at the room. "We really must beg your pardon for our intrusion. However, now that we're satisfied of the health, and safety of you all, the Prince and I shall leave you in peace. Come along, Arthur!"

Arthur didn't seem to hear what his father had said, and carried on looking peering hungrily at the Princess. Henry clapped him firmly on the shoulder, and firmly steered him away, leaving a gaggle of Spanish ladies who's faces ranged from mildly amused to utterly scandalised. Henry knew, from his own experience, that the first hurdle to a happy marriage had been nicely cleared. The first meeting. He'd had it with Elizabeth. It was something most married couples went through.

As the journey to London progressed, the friendship between them blossomed. The Princess caught a heavy cold, but she continued with her journey through her discomfort. She told them about how she'd been so sick on the boat, that a man had had to carry her ashore when they finally reached England. She told them about the Priest, who'd taken their confessions for fear that the ships may sink in the raging seas.

Henry could see, through the corner of his eye, Prince Arthur taking her hand, and squeezing it tight as the girl relived her horror journey in her distinctive, and highly endearing, broken English. Henry sat back in the carriage, content to let them chatter excitedly, and pretended to be invisible as the love between them began to take root. Just as it had between he and Queen Elizabeth. For first time since he took the throne, nearly sixteen years before, he felt that the future was safe. As Arthur gabbled about London, Ludlow and life as the Prince and Princess of Wales, King Henry finally relished the taste of the first fruits of stability.


	12. The Hauntings

**Author's Note:** Thank you, as always, to all of my reviewers, as their input always means a lot to me. So thank you! I don't own any of the characters, history, or events, and this is done for love of history, and not for profit. I hope everyone enjoys the story, and please read, and review. Thanks!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve: The Hauntings.<strong>

The late summer sun beat down on Bosworth field as Henry's eyes fluttered open. He could feel the hard, heat parched earth beneath the tips of his fingers, and beneath his face where his cheek rested in a pool of his own blood. Dazed, confused, he wondered where the smell of gun powder was coming from. Groans, like those of dying men, and the whinny of restless horses seemed to drift over to him, carried on undulating waves of sound, took a long time to register in his brain. Painfully, his body aching all over, he rolled onto his back and looked up through smoky heat haze, into the clear blue skies high over the Leicestershire countryside. He sat up slowly, in easy stages and then the memories of the battle came back to him. They had been crushed.

Numb with disbelief, he stood up and surveyed the scene before him. His army lay dead, strewn about the field like detritus from an explosion in a forge. Twisted armour dug into the tender flesh of his men, tearing them apart. Guns and cannons lay abandoned, still smoking into the fresh country air, from when the last of his men had fought valiantly against the Royal onslaught of King Richard.

Amongst the carnage, he spots the body of his Standard Bearer, Sir William Brandon, laying in a heap of dented, pierced armour at his left. Brandon's wife had just delivered him a son. The last thing Sir William had told Henry, was that the boy's name was going to be Charles. Emotion, a raw, physical grief, swells in Henry's chest at the memory of their final conversation. John De Vere, his most trusted general is dead, too. His Uncle Jasper, the father he never had, who had taken care of him from infancy, to adulthood, lies dead at the edge of the woods by Ambion Hill. The acrid taste of vomit hits the back of his, dry, burning throat and nausea swept over him. He doubled over, and spat the evil tasting sick over the blood crusted grass at his mysteriously bare feet.

"Does your mother know you're here?"

The man's voice startled Henry, who immediately jumped back to attention and found himself staring into the face of a total stranger, who was still dressed in his glittering, silver plated armour. Perplexed by the man's question, Henry dropped his gaze, but as he did so, spotted the man's family crest. A Stanley. His step-father!

"You bastard!" Henry spat at Stanley's feet, unable to control his anger at his step-father's betrayal. "You were supposed to come over to my side, and help us win the battle! What happened to you? Where were you? Too busy polishing your breast plate, by the looks of it!"

Henry wanted Stanley to rage at him, so he would have an excuse to unleash the pent up fury that ate at him in return. He wanted to lash out, and have a good reason to do so. But, infuriatingly, Stanley merely gazed back at him, with a maddeningly sympathetic look on his face.

"Oh Harry, you didn't believe all that, did you?" He asked with his brow creased in concern. Stanley sighed, but continued with an air of fatherly patience. "Your mother did warn me that it would be tough bringing you to heel. But Harry, no matter how hard you fight me, I am your father now. And what you did today was wrong. Very wrong. Just look at all the trouble you and your friends caused. Look at the mess you've made!"

Stanley made a wide, sweeping gesture with his left arm, around the body strewn battle field. Henry looked askance at the man, unable to believe what he was hearing. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he wondered where King Richard was, and where the Royal army was. But, here was Stanley, Richard's most trusted General, lecturing him as though he were a naughty child due for a whipping. By now, he had expected to have his head cut off.

"Are you going to hand me over?" Henry asked, his voice low, trying to wring some sense from his treacherous step father.

"I cannot let this go, Harry," Stanley explained apologetically. "I have no other choice."

Stanley shook his head sadly as he turned away from his step-son, and called over his shoulder.

"Margaret! … Margaret, are you there?"

Henry craned his neck to try and see who Stanley was calling out to, refusing to believe that his mother was here, on the battlefield. But, all that could be heard was another man's voice, calling for an axe. Finally, Margaret Beaufort appeared with a face like thunder.

"I have tried, my lord, I really have tried," Margaret Beaufort stormed across the field, looking daggers at her son, but she carried on ranting at her husband. "I did everything I could for him, Thomas! I sent him to live with his uncle, but Jasper made it worse. Then, I gave him to the Herbert's, and he ended up starting a war! So, then I sent him into exile..." Her words broke off as her anger seemed to abate. Henry realised she was weeping. "Well, look at the trouble he's in now! Just what am I going to do with him, now?"

"Mother, it's me," Henry pleaded with her. "It's Henry. You can't hand me over. I am your son!"

"... An axe ..." The strange third man's voice permeated the silence that fell between the three of them. Henry darted around, trying to find the source of the voice, but saw no one. "I … Need … An … Axe! God's wounds, someone, somewhere must have an axe!"

Margaret ignored the strange disembodied voice, cupped Henry's chin in her hand, and peered intently at him. He was relieved to see that her expression had softened immeasurably, but her words cut him to the core.

"Harry, you're an incurable case, and you cannot expect your father and I -"

"He is not my father!" Henry cut across her, and forced her hand away from his face. But she continued as though there had been no interruption.

"- To intercede with gracious King Richard, yet again. It's not fair, Henry. You're all grown up, and you must face your punishment like a man."

"Here's the axe!" Called the disembodied voice cheerily.

Henry, speechless with the betrayal of those he had once trusted his life with, spun around and found King Richard standing beside his step father, happily swinging an axe around in his right hand. King Richard spotted Henry, and the axe fell limp at his side as a broad grin spread across his face, as though he found the situation genuinely amusing.

"So!" He called out jovially. "Here's the little tyke who tried to steal my Crown, eh?"

Everyone turned to face the triumphant King, but no one answered him. Bile rose in Henry's throat as his mother and step father sank into obeisance before Richard. Henry remained standing with his back straight, glaring at his nemesis from across the small space that divided them. His silence was resolute.

"Well then," Richard sounded less jovial as he cast an awkward glance around at them all. "Forgive my intrusion upon this little domestic scene. But, I feel we should get this over with. A short, sharp, shock to knock the head off his shoulders, I think, should do the trick!"

Without further prompting, both Margaret and Thomas Stanley moved over to Henry and pinned his arms behind his back. Immobilised, he was forced to his knees before an old tree stump that Henry could have sworn was not there before. Panicking, now, he turned to look up into the face of his mother.

"Mother, please, he's going to kill me!" He whined as Stanley roughly shoved the back of his head, forcing him face down on to the tree stump. "Ouch! That hurt!"

"Not as much as this will!" Richard quipped in that irritatingly jovial, avuncular voice again, and gave one last enthusiastic swing of the axe.

A second later, Henry could feel the blade of the axe digging into the back of his neck, and it forced him to press his throat harder into the rough tree stump as he flinched beneath the cold, steel blade. He struggled against Stanley's grip, but he was completely helpless. Henry squeezed his eyes shut, and clenched his teeth. He heard the whoosh of the axe as it arced through the air. He heard a crack, and he awoke with a scream. The night terrors shut themselves off and shattered like dropped glass.

Henry caught his breath as he rubbed the residue of the dream from his eyes. His wrist burned with pain, where he'd hit the bed post as he flung himself up off the mattress, as if he had tried to physically throw himself out of his own nightmare.

"Darling, it's the middle of the night. What could you possibly want with an axe?"

Elizabeth's voice was leaden with sleep as she sat slowly up in bed. Henry turned to look at her, squinted through the poor light, and saw the worry etched in the lines of her face.

"It was just a dream," He answered breathlessly. However, it was a dream that had left him trembling.

He noticed for the first time, that his nightshirt was clinging to his skin, a soft, cold sweat having broken out over the whole of his body. He was still trembling violently. It was a dream he'd had time, and time again, in the run up to the Battle of Bosworth. Always the same, every night for months. Now it was back. It wasn't the dream itself that had Henry so unnerved. Just that fact that it had come back, seventeen years later, completely out of the blue.

Elizabeth plumped up the bolsters, and gestured for him to lie back in her arms. "Tell me about it," She said. He did so, gratefully. He spilled every last detail. From the comedic, to the terrifying. He'd seen loved ones, and treasured friends die in his nightmare. Only one of them, Sir William Brandon, actually had died in the fighting. He died much as he did in Henry's nightmare. He was at King Henry's side, as Standard Bearer, in the press of the fighting. They were so far in the press of the battle, that Brandon was killed by Richard III in person. It was the first time that Henry had seen the usurper King, Richard of Gloucester. He saw the look in the old King's eyes through his visor, as he struck his closest friend down.

In reality, Sir Thomas Stanley, his step father, did intervene in the battle, and did swap over to Henry's side. But no one trusts a Stanley, and Henry had to prove that he was winning the battle, before Stanley would show up for him. Henry's fears of defeat were real, and the outcome was far from guaranteed.

Elizabeth listened in silent patience as he talked and talked. She brushed the loose strands of greying hair from his flushed face, soothing him gently. When, once again, Henry had talked himself out, and lapsed into silence, she kissed his cheek.

"It was just a dream, my love," She whispered. But she could see how unsettled he was.

Henry let his head fall back against Elizabeth's shoulder. "Maybe it's just with the wedding coming up," He conjectured more to himself, than to Elizabeth. "Everything is up in the air until Arthur and the Princess are married, and packed off to Ludlow together."

"That's all it is, Henry," She tried to sound reassuring. "It doesn't mean anything. Just ask the astronomers, if you want a professional opinnion."

Elizabeth settled back down in the bed, and considered the subject closed, but he was still unnerved. The astronomers would tell him whatever it was they thought he wanted to hear, rendering the process of asking them for advice completely useless.

"Think about the grandchildren," Elizabeth mumbled quietly as she slipped back into unconsciousness.

The embers of the fire glowed pitifully weak in the hearth, but it was still pitch dark outside, and dawn was several hours away. He lay there, and tried to shake the feelings his dream had left him with. Maybe Elizabeth was right, he should think about their notional, future grandchildren. But right now, with no distractions, that dream replayed itself at will. He chided himself for his childishness, but to no avail. He lay there, wakeful, and jittery, until the sun crept stealthily into the eastern skies.

* * *

><p>"His Grace, the King of England, Ireland, and France!"<p>

The herald's voice cut across the din of the thronged Great Hall, and the chatter died down almost at once. King Henry nodded to the herald, a signal for him to withdraw back to the sidelines. Elizabeth turned to face her husband, and squeezed his hand for reassurance. 'Good luck', she mouthed the words to him as he drained his glass of wine, and rose to his feet. He scanned the crowds assembled before him. The whole nobility of the realm had turned out to celebrate the Royal Wedding, and the sight of it made Henry flush with pride.

To King Henry's left, his mother sat proudly, dressed in her finery as the Countess of Richmond, having been finally coaxed out that dreadful nun's habit that she'd recently taken to wearing. To his right, sat Queen Elizabeth, with the younger children sat in order of rank. Princess Margaret, as future Queen of Scotland, took precedence over Prince Henry, Duke of York. Finally, at the top table, sat young Princess Mary, the prettiest child in England, or so her parents believed. He would see to it that she was Queen of somewhere or other, some day. But not now. Henry could not even consider parting with Princess Mary just now. She was the baby of the family.

But the main focus of attention, thus far, had been on Prince Arthur, and Princess Catalina, who'd already adopted the Anglicised version of her name, and insisted upon being addressed as Catherine, Princess of Wales. King Henry stood, and watched the two of them, dressed still in their wedding finery, as they graciously soaked up the attention and platitudes of the guests. Already, Henry noted with satisfaction, Catherine was winning over the nobility. During the processions, the people, too, had cheered her name to the heavens. She had won the people over with her dignity, grace and effortless ease.

Finally, as Henry mused over the success of the match and the wedding, the assembled crowds fell into complete silence at last, and all turned to look at him. He took a deep, steadying breath, and spoke clearly, in defiance of his fluttering nerves.

"Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen of the realm," He began. "I must beg your pardon and intrude upon the festivities of this great occasion, to say just a few words of what this day means to me, to all of you, and to England at large. I promise to be brief, for every moment that passes, is a moment we could all be celebrating, and I am never one to waste valuable time.

First of all, I must sincerely thank His Excellency Roderigo Gonzalez, Ambassador for Spain, for making this marriage possible. I must also thank Isabella, Queen of Castile, and Ferdinand, King of Aragon, for agreeing to take a leap in the dark, and sending their daughter, Infanta Catalina, to us.

The act of sending their treasured Daughter to us, although something that happens on a daily basis, in Kingdoms throughout the known world, may seem a simple thing. But, here in England, we all know that it is not. I need not go into detail about the unhappy past, here. We, almost all of us, lived through the Cousin's War. We lost the ones we loved, the ones we counted as treasured friends. We suffered the degradation, the cruelties of war, and together we endured the seemingly interminable years of forced exile. We watched people lose their heads, and some of us, myself included, had prices on our heads. England was brought to her knees. Trade ceased, Merchants went elsewhere, to avoid the attendant horrors of the wars. We were demoralised, and desperate, and penniless. Tonight, before you all, Catalina and Arthur are the living proof that the future is safe, secure, and set to prosper. As us old relics of the past fade away, they will step into our shoes, and carry the banner of peace forwards in our stead.

This may seem irrelevant to you all. However, it is one thing to win a crown, as I did. But, it is quite another thing to keep that Crown, and to re-build a nation torn apart by war. To raise a Kingdom from it's knees, and point the way to a future of mutual prosperity, unity and progress. Then, there is the added task, -and this is the hardest task of all-, of proving to the rest of the world that we have moved on, and left those days behind us. This is also what Catalina and Arthur mean to us. It is the sign we have all been longing to see, that once again, England is where she belongs, and that is on the European centre stage-"

Henry was cut off by rapturous applause, and he used the opportunity to fortify his nerves by downing another glass of wine and wiping the tear from his eye. Once everyone had settled again, he looked over the young, married couple who were now looking back at him expectantly, and carried on with his speech.

"I said earlier, that Isabella and Ferdinand had taken a leap in the dark by sending the Infanta here, to England. It is their faith in Prince Arthur, and in the seeds of peace that we have thus far sown, that has ultimately led to this day. I have every confidence that Arthur, with Princess Catalina at his side, will take up the mantle of state, and truly draw this country back from the abyss, and build the future that we, of my generation, could only dream of.

For that reason, as well as many others, I could not begin to describe how proud of my son, Prince Arthur, I really am. So, I would like to propose a toast to Arthur, Prince of Wales."

"Arthur, Prince of Wales!" The sound of over a thousand voices filled the air in the Great Hall. Arthur blushed scarlet and looked coyly down at the table, but Henry could see the grin that had spread across his crimson face.

"Also, I should like to propose a toast to my beautiful daughter in law, who I believe has adopted the English version of her name, and would now prefer to be addressed, as Catherine, Princess of Wales. May her life here in England be fruitful, long, and filled with God's blessings. To Catherine, Princess of Wales!"

It was Catherine's turn to blush as glasses were re-filled and another toast drunk in her honour. But, unlike Arthur, she held her head high, and smiled graciously around the hall, and acknowledged their attention. The girl was born to be Queen, Henry thought to himself.

"With the formalities concluded, there remains just one more announcement, which I believe is going to come from my beautiful Queen, Elizabeth of York," Henry declared as he took Elizabeth's hand, and raised her from her seat by his side.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Elizabeth said as she smoothed down the front of her gown before addressing the crowds as loudly as she could. "Thank you, to everyone for being here today, and I now can take great pleasure in declaring that the festivities are to begin!"

As soon as the Queen had resumed her seat, the musicians began to play. Couples teamed up, and took straight to the newly cleared floor for the first dance as the chatter was replaced by music that drowned out all other sounds. The whole place became a riot of colour as the ladies twirled, their gowns splayed as they spun and laughed and danced.

"Why is Arthur not dancing with Princess Catherine?" Henry's voice piped up over the music, and he looked up his parents, confused.

"They must be tired, sweetheart," Elizabeth replied. "It is has been a long day for them."

"That's no good, mother. I will ask the Princess to dance myself!"

Henry watched as his youngest son dashed up to where the Princess sat with Arthur's hand placed gently in her own. The Prince swept an elegant bow, but Henry could not hear what was being said. The Princess laughed cheerily, and gazed at the young Prince with the adoration of a devoted older sister, clearly smitten with Harry's charm. Eagerly, Catherine sprang to her feet after Arthur gave his permission for her to dance, and together, she and Henry took to the dance floor.

King Henry watched the two of them as they waited, poised, for the next dance to begin. Catherine rested her hand lightly on Harry's proffered forearm, and he looked up at her, almost in an awestruck wonder.

"I think Catherine has an admirer," Elizabeth had to bellow directly into Henry's ear, and she nodded at the Prince, who danced magnificently with Catherine.

They became the centre of attention. At the end of every dance, Harry would bow low to his sister in law, like the model of chivalry he had been raised to be, and Catherine blushed but smiled widely at all the Prince's attentions.

For a moment, King Henry felt a flicker of irritation at the upstaging of Prince Arthur, and he glanced over to see how the Prince of Wales was taking it. He wasn't. Henry leaned forwards and studied Arthur closely. He hadn't noticed before, but there were dark circles under his eyes, which were now closed, and his head lolled against the back of his chair. All this time, the Prince must have been fighting against exhaustion, and now that all eyes were off him, he had felt able to succumb.

"Elizabeth, look at Prince Arthur," He said, raising his voice over the music.

"Why?" She asked, her brows creased in concern as she turned to look at the boy. "Oh, bless him, Henry. He is exhausted. Dismiss him to bed, it's been too much for him."

Henry leaned over and kissed Elizabeth, careful not to knock the coronet of her head as he did so. He excused himself, and crossed over to where his son continued his descent into unconsciousness.

"Arthur," Henry shook the boy just enough to wake him.

"Uhm..." Arthur replied groggily as he opened his eyes again, and peered around as though wondering where all these people had come from. "Oh … father … Sorry, must've dozed off."

"Come on, son. Bed time, I think," Henry offered a hand and pulled Arthur to his feet. "Your mother will explain to Catherine where you are."

Henry steered the Prince away from the crowds, and ignored his mother's queries about what was happening. It seemed, to the King, that it was only last week that he was able to carry Arthur to his bed when he'd fallen asleep during events like this. It seemed, that within a blink of an eye, all his children had grown, developed little personalities, and character traits and flaws. Sometimes, he was left wondering where all that time went, when he wasn't looking. It was though he just turned around, one day, and there they all were. Arthur, Henry, Margaret, and Mary; now joined by Catherine of Aragon.

"Arthur, are you all right?" Henry asked as they reached the deserted galleries leading up the Royal Apartments.

"Just tired."

"Are you sure? We can delay your leaving for Ludlow until after tomorrow, if you like?"

"I am well, father. I promise. I just need to sleep, that's all." Arthur was resolute, so Henry pressed no further.

"I hope I haven't disappointed the Princess," Arthur added as they neared the Privy Chamber.

"Of course not!" Henry replied as he let them both inside. "Certainly, your mother and I haven't been so proud of you since the day you pissed all over the French Ambassador's roast Boar."

"What!"

"When you were born," Henry explained as though he expected Arthur to remember the incident. "Well, with you being the first born son, the Court needed to see proof that you were indeed a male heir, and not some changeling that we acquired in readiness. So, as soon as you were born, we brought you out to where the celebratory feasts were happening, and … er … showed you … to everyone. Being a babe in arms, and not really in control of yourself, you relieved yourself on the elderly French Ambassador, and his meal. It really was rather amusing!"

"Father!" Arthur exclaimed, his voice horrified. But, a second later, and he doubled up with laughter.

They paused by the door of Prince Arthur's private apartments, and Henry looked at him closely.

"William Compton will be here soon, to prepare you for bed, I am sure," He explained. "Charles Brandon, too. He'll be accompanying you to Ludlow, too."

"Thank you, father," Arthur replied, and a silence in which neither moved fell. Finally, Henry threw his arms around Arthur, and hugged him close. Nothing more needed to be said, so he let the Prince go, but before Arthur closed the door, Henry remembered something that had troubled him since the night before.

"Arthur, you're a good friend to Charles. Does he ever mention his father, Sir William Brandon?"

Arthur stopped, and turned back to face King Henry. "No, father. I thought that he'd died in battle?"

"Oh, he did," Henry replied. "I was just curious. That's all."

* * *

><p>The whole of the Palace had gathered in the forecourt to wave off the Prince and Princess of Wales as they left for Ludlow. They all stood shivering in the cold, crisp winter air, beneath a sun so distant from the earth it's rays barely impinged upon the day. Queen Elizabeth took Princess Catherine to one side, and embraced her warmly.<p>

"It is has been an honour to meet you, and welcome you into our Kingdom, Your Grace," She said as she though back the inevitable tears of separation. "Write to us as often as you can manage, and keep us informed of everything. If ever there is anything that I can do, it shall be done without question."

"I shall, Your Grace," Catherine replied tearfully. "Thank you for all that you have done for me. It has made the pain of leaving my family diminish more than you could ever know, and I shall miss you terribly."

They drew apart and Elizabeth led Catherine to the waiting carriage. Arthur was already inside, talking to his father who leaned on the open door. He kissed Catherine on the cheek as she climbed inside beside her new husband.

"Good bye, Mama," Arthur whispered so that only she could hear him call her by the old, familiar name. "I shall miss you."

"God bless you, son," She replied, kissing him firmly. "Go now, both of you. God speed, and God bless you both."

Get it over with quickly, Henry thought to himself as he, too, said his final farewells. The horses tethered to the trap whinnied and stamped as the horse master spurred them into action. The air was filled with the clatter of their hooves, and the carriage pulled away, conveying Arthur and Catherine to their new lives at Ludlow in the Welsh Marches. Far from home, and far from their family, to build a new life for themselves as husband and wife, as a future King and Queen.

"They'll be back at New Year," Henry assured Elizabeth as he wiped away her tears with the pad of his thumb. "We will see them again, soon." He added, wrapping her into a close embrace.

Elizabeth watched over Henry's shoulder as the carriage disappeared, a tiny dot on the horizon, before vanishing. Only once it had gone, and all she could see was the wood smoke drifting through the river mists, did they turn around and return to the Palace.


	13. A New Mourning

**Author's Note:** As ever, thank you to everyone who has left reviews for this story, it's great hearing from you all. Hopefully, people continue to enjoy the story. As ever, I own none of this. Please read and review. Thank you, again!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen: A New Mourning.<strong>

King Henry watched the swans glide effortlessly across the glassy surface of the lake. A little trail of cygnets followed in the mother swan's wake, bobbing in the slipstream. Henry looked at the babies and smiled, despite the single tear that trickled down the lines of his face. He watched the cygnets, and thought about his children. It was like this, when you had a child. Yourself, and your partner married, performed an unmemorable act between the sheets, and the miracle occurred. Your soul was spliced, a part simply split away, and joined forces with that of your partner's, and converged to form another living being, that was a combination of the two of you. It was all as simple as that. At the same time, it was all as complex, and bewilderingly beautiful as that. But, that was the easy part. The second was messy, and cumbersome. The pregnancy.

Over the following months, a man like King Henry would massage his wife's swollen feet, and rub her aching back as her body swelled with the fruit of their love. The expectant mother would then be bundled off to her confinement chamber until the child was born. The confinement chamber was the culmination of nine months of waiting, and praying, and battling against the hundred little anxieties that nibbled at the corners of the mind throughout the whole process.

Then, at the climax of that process, was the moment when the new baby drew it's first breath after the mother had screamed and heaved the child into a physical, corporeal existence. When it's clear, bright eyes darted about the room, and it's tiny lungs began to suck in the air, and it's wavering shrieks filled the expectant silence. That was when the babe realised it was alive. That's when the sheer, physical, punch in the guts of love, first hit the couple who were now parents.

Henry and Elizabeth had been there, and done that, a total of seven times. Arthur, Margaret, Edmund, Edward, Henry, Elizabeth and finally, Mary. And from Arthur, down to Mary, the first flood of love that swamped the hearts upon the first sight of the new child, it never diminished. Each time was like the first. One could never prepare for it, and one never seemed to expect it. That unconditional love. That weight. That sheer, stubborn joy that mad a man walk ten feet tall as he soon as he had held his new born for the first time.

Sometimes, the babe's lungs and heart would fail, like with Edmund, and Elizabeth. Sometimes, they would never breathe at all, like with Edward. They would slip away, and leave a little hole in the lives of their parents. A hole that could be papered over, but never mended. Because that was a part of your soul that had died with them. It was a piece of you, it could never come back, and it could never be replicated.

God willing, the babes flourished. Like Arthur, Margaret, Henry, and Mary all had. Their doting parents watched them grow, and develop. They marked their children's increasing heights against the walls, and watched their little failings with sympathy, and rejoiced at their little successes. That bond between parent and child grew stronger, and more complex, as the children themselves developed into multi layered individuals, who may resemble their forebears, but grow a new set of their own unique traits. Arthur was more placid than anyone else. Henry more temperamental. Mary more sweet natured, and Margaret more patient than anyone else. They grew from little pets, into little people.

As the children grew, Henry and Elizabeth looked on with pride as they took their first, baby steps into the world of independence. They tested the limits, and ran back to the solid pillars of their parents when they went too far, or needed to be reassured, and needed to feel the unconditional love of the parent. That was the unspoken, unwritten contract of parenthood. It was natural, and automatic.

Then, the time would come to say good bye. The oldest married, and went off to start a new life. To begin that cycle themselves. Henry and Elizabeth waved Arthur and his new wife off, all smiles and fierce tears of pride.

But now, King Henry stood and watched the swans glide across the lake, having just been told that Arthur had died. That piece of them, that he and Elizabeth had created one hot, early summer's night, that they had loved unconditionally, and nurtured to maturity, had broken away and died in the night. Standing there, in the biting cold wind, Henry could feel the pain of the separation more acutely than could ever be described. He didn't know how to voice it, or how to articulate it. It sat there in his head, crushing his chest, choking the breath from his lungs.

He could hear the Archbishop's words echoing through his mind. The words no parent should ever have to hear. That his son was dead. But, they left little by way of meaning. Such small words, who's meaning was so utterly incomprehensible to him. Dead. One word. One syllable. The impact, utterly devastating.

He picked up a flat surfaced stone, and skimmed it across the placid surface of the lake, and watched it bounce once, twice, and three times before slipping beneath the smooth waters into the deep. The ripples caused by the stone spread outwards, and he imagined them causing a tidal wave by the time they reached the stony shore. A tidal wave, to assuage his pain and wash away the emotions that stormed around his head.

Slowly, he turned back to the Palace, and noticed Princess Mary watching him intently from the one of the Privy Chamber windows. Her small nose was pressed flat against the glass, as if she was trying to walk through it get to him. He decided to help the child along by pointing to the doors that opened onto the Privy Gardens. She gave her nurses the slip with ease, and Henry knelt down with his arms open to her as she padded across the gravelled ground in her new sandals, giving them their first scuffs.

"Papa," She called to him in her tremulous voice, and declared: "You're sad."

Henry ignored her comment as he lifted her up. "Come and see the baby swans, sweeting," He said as he pointed with one arm across the lake. "They're called cygnets, aren't they?"

"Yes, Papa," She replied, her voice distant as she concentrated on the small balls of fluff that floated gracefully around the lake.

Henry chose this moment to try and prepare Mary for the storm ahead. He had hoped that her distraction would lessen the impact. He couldn't tell her everything, as he had not told Elizabeth, but all the same, he wanted her to be prepared.

"Mary, when I speak with Mama, she will be sad, too," He found himself choking on his words. "You, Harry, and Margaret will all need to be brave, and grown up. Do you think that you can manage that?"

She turned her doleful eyes to his, and nodded. She understood, but she could not comprehend what was going on. But, all the same, she seemed to realise that things were serious.

"Mama is back now, she is in her Chamber," Mary informed him.

Henry's heart jolted so violently that he had to grip Mary tight to avoid dropping her. The moment he'd been dreading had arrived. Telling Elizabeth, he knew, would make it real. To repeat the words he'd heard, to voice it out loud, would make it all official, and undeniable.

With Mary in his arms, he walked the short distance back into the Privy Chamber, and relinquished Mary into the arms of her Governess.

"Take all of the children out, please, Lady Salisbury," Henry instructed the Countess.

She asked no questions, and began to bustle the children away. Henry, unaware of what he was doing, reached out and touched Prince Harry's shoulder, making him stop and look up at his father as he passed. Henry looked down at the boy, just ten years old, and now with the weight of the nation on his shoulders. The saddest part being that he didn't even know it yet.

"I shall speak to you later, Harry," The King informed him. Harry continued to look up, as though he wanted to ask questions. But, like his sister, he seemed to understand that something was happening. He sensed the ill omens, and merely trotted after his sister, after just the briefest of curious glances back over his shoulder at his father.

Henry waited until their footsteps had receded down the outside corridors until he walked, at a measured pace through the Outer Gallery. His hand rested on the door handle, and he stopped. It occurred to him that he did not know what to say. He tried to think of ways of telling his wife that their son was dead. He could not.

He eased the door silently open. Elizabeth came into view, her rosary still entwined around her fingers from her morning prayers. He Ladies, Henry was relieved to see Elizabeth's sister, Catherine, back among them, were all chattering animatedly. They didn't hear him enter the room. He cleared his throat to announce his arrival, and immediately, they all sank into deep curtsey's.

"Ladies, please, I must speak with the Queen in private," He explained, his voice soft, but devoid of emotion as he commanded the army of women outside.

They filed out, and Elizabeth rose falteringly to her feet. She smoothed down her gowns, and frowned at him.

"Henry, you look awful. What has happened?"

He waited, once again, for privacy before he spoke. He reached out to her, and gripped her hands as he steered her over to the window seat. They sat in each other's arms, in the window, and Henry found himself looking out over the swans, again. He kept his focus on them, as he explained.

"The Archbishop of Canterbury came in to see me this morning," He said. "Arthur fell sick at Ludlow, and he …" He tried to stop his voice from breaking, but was failing miserably. "He died in his sleep, two nights ago."

For a moment, nothing happened. But after that moment, Elizabeth pulls away from him as though he had burned her. She flinched as though the news were a physical blow. She got to her feet, and swooned under the weight of what her brain was processing.

"No!" She snapped angrily, her face contorted with pain. "No … No... No!"

She screamed the word "no" as her knees buckled, and her body folded in on itself. Henry leapt up and caught her fall before she could hit the ground. He held her close as she collapsed against his chest, heaving great, choking sobs. She cried out in anguish as she gripped at his arm, digging her nails in deep. Her cries ricocheted around the room. The sight of it, the sound of her agonised grief, made him want to melt. It made him want to shout and scream, just to help her along. If he could, he would lift the burden, and carry it all on his own shoulders. But all he could do, was sit at her side on the Privy Chamber floor, and rock her gently back and forth, with his arms wrapped tight around her, and never let go of her.

* * *

><p>"As Your Graces can imagine, returning the Prince's body was impossible," John Morton spoke softly into the darkened Chamber. The windows had been shuttered, blocking out the unwelcome daylight, and shutting the King and Queen in their own little bubble where they could grieve away from the prying eyes of the Court. Elizabeth whimpered quietly at the Archbishop's news.<p>

"So, where has he been laid to rest?" Henry asked as he tightened his grip on Elizabeth's hand.

"Worcester Cathedral, Your Grace. With all the honours of a Prince of Wales."

"Thank you, Archbishop. Please stay close to us. We will need you," Elizabeth spoke with a hoarse voice, rough with grief.

The whole of the evening before, they had lain in each other's arms, weeping inconsolably. Neither had slept, nor had they wanted to. They wanted to feel that pain, to make Arthur feel real, as though trying to subdue the grief was pushing the memory of him further away. Just now, they wanted him close. Closer, even, than when he had been alive.

"Archbishop, before you leave, there is a young Chaplain of your acquaintance, a John Fisher. My mother is very fond of him, so could you please send him to Baynard's Castle for her comfort?"

"Of course, Your Grace," Morton replied with a deep bow. "If there is anything at all that I can do, no matter at what time of day, or night, do not hesitate to send for me."

"Thank you, John. Elizabeth and I are grateful."

Some people had been actively avoiding them. Henry understood. They didn't know what to say, or what to do. So, they simply put off their audiences, and dipped into the shadows as they approached. But, the Archbishop, like Elizabeth's sister, and Lady Katherine Gordon, had been at their side the whole time, and Henry could never convey his gratitude to them.

"We must speak to Harry now, and tell him what is happening," Elizabeth said as the Archbishop vanished through the Privy Chamber doors. "It will give us something to do, other than sit here mourning."

Henry stood up, and held out his hand to her. "We will get through this, Elizabeth," He said, firmly, resolutely. "We shall over come."

Elizabeth stopped, and looked back at him intently. "Yes," She said. "We will. Together." They joined hands, and wrapped their arms around each other.

Henry and Elizabeth sat on the edge of Prince Harry's bed, with the boy perched between them. He played with his prayer roll, ravelling and unravelling it, as King Henry tried to begin an explanation.

"Put this down, sweeting," Elizabeth said gently as she took the prayer roll. "Listen to Papa."

"Harry," Henry spoke, and took the child's hand in his own. "Your older brother, Prince Arthur, has been called home to God, by the angels."

"The angel's cannot have him!" Henry protested vehemently. "He is my brother, not theirs'!"His face screwed up in anger, and Elizabeth had to turn away, to hide her tears.

"I know, Harry," Henry pressed on patiently. This was always going to be the most difficult. "But Arthur, and the angels had no choice but to call him home to God. Arthur was too delicate for this world. Do you understand, Harry?"

He looked far from happy. Tears welled in the Prince's eyes, making his eyes sparkle in the candlelight. But, he gave a small nod of his head.

"What about Princess Catherine?" He asked, his brow creasing into a frown of worry. "Is she all alone, now?"

Henry and Elizabeth exchanged a look of concern. The last that they'd heard Catherine, too, was gravely ill, and likely to die. Henry had been agonising over what to tell Ferdinand and Isabella. If it wasn't bad enough hearing about the death of a child, but hearing about it through a letter to an Ambassador was even worse.

"We're doing everything we can for Princess Catherine, Harry," Henry assured him truthfully. "But Harry, do you understand that you are now the Prince Wales, and you will have to be King after me?"

"But, I want to be the Archbishop of Canterbury."

"You have no choice any more, Harry," Henry tried to be kind, and gentle. But the boy needed to know, and there was no room for doubts. The boy's world would be turned upside down, and he needed to be prepared.

"You will be a wonderful King, Harry," Elizabeth tried with all her might to be reassuring. It yielded results in that Prince Henry smiled for the first time since they entered the room.

"Yes, Mama. I think I shall marry Catherine when she comes back, though. I don't want her to be alone. She's a good dancer."

"Supper time, and then bed Harry," Henry instructed him, with a kiss on his head. "You be a good boy, and do as your governess tells you. Mama and I will be next door, if you ever need to talk to us."

Hand in hand, Elizabeth and Henry left the Prince's Chamber, and returned to their own. Through all the grief, they'd clung to each other for dear life. Together, they had pulled each other through the last few days. They dried each other's tears, and leaned against one another when the weight of their grief became too much. Everything was changing again, but all was not lost. Hope remained.

* * *

><p>It was on the fourth night, after Arthur's death, that Henry and Elizabeth got talking. Alone in their Privy Chamber, still sharing their private grief as they sat in the semi-darkness by the roaring fire. It was then that Elizabeth made her suggestion. Henry disentangled himself from her, and crossed the room, standing by the window out of habit, even though it was still shuttered.<p>

"No, Elizabeth!" He stated firmly.

"No!" She repeated, incredulously. "Henry, I am strong. I am healthy. I can give you another son!"

He could hear the crackle of her skirts as she rose to her feet, and moved to stand behind him. He turned to look at her, and he had to admit to himself that he was tempted. She was strong, and a healthy thirty five years old. Rarely ill. Always robust. But the dangers were too much.

"I need you, Elizabeth," He admitted as he all but ran from her advances. "I don't think you realise just how much I need you, so I cannot take that risk!"

"Let me be the judge of that, Henry!" She cried shrilly across the room. "I can take the risk. I can do this. Please, Henry, just one more. One more baby. If it's a boy, it will be an heir to take the pressure off Harry."

"_If _it is a boy," Henry emphasised the 'if'. "If it is a boy, if the child lives, if you survive. Are you keeping count of the ifs, Elizabeth?"

She looked at him askance with tears cascading down her face, rendering her almost incomprehensible. Henry couldn't hold her, he couldn't tell her that it would all be all right. If he did, he knew that he would give in, his resolve would weaken and he would be as good as killing her.

"It will be the death of you, Elizabeth," He pleaded with her to see sense. "It would be my fault. I would be to blame for your death, and that I cannot live with!"

Elizabeth made no reply. She dried her tears, and smoothed down her gowns before walking over to him, and making him look at her. She was composed and resolute as she spoke.

"Just one more, Henry. Please, do this for me. Just one more."

He wanted to stop her, he wanted to grab her wrists as she began to unlace the front of her bodices, but something stopped him. He didn't want to look, but she was still such a beautiful woman. His arousal filled him with self-disgust, but it happened all the same.

"I will be your murderer," He sobbed, choking on each word. She silenced him with a kiss as her gown slipped below her shoulders, revealing her ample cleavage. Her touch was gentle as she took his hands in hers, and led him to the ante chamber where they slept. He followed with feet of clay. His mind begged him to stop, but his body followed his wife in flagrant defiance of all his common sense.

He turned his face away as Elizabeth stripped him of his shirt and pushed him back against the bed.

"We should think about this," He suggested, but his voice was hollow. Another voice, somewhere in the darkest corner of his mind, told him that he wanted this just as much as Elizabeth did, and he hated himself for it.

Elizabeth wet her lips as her final shift slipped over her body, leaving her naked.

"Henry please," She whispered as she prostrated herself over him. "Let's do this. One more baby. Just one more, that's all."

His resistance was futile. They both wept openly as they made love. Tears of shame, for doing this act so soon after Arthur died. Tears of grief, of loss, and helplessness as they realised that an army of new children would never replace one that had died.

It was more of an exchange of bodily fluids, than sex. They pulled apart as soon as the deed was down, each consumed with their own guilt as they lay back and looked up at the canopy above their heads, and dried their tears. But, now that it was done, Henry ended the conflict in his head. What was done, was done, and there was no going back now. He threw his arm around Elizabeth, and held her close as they drifted into a fitful sleep.


	14. Some Kind Of Happiness

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. As always, I own none of the characters, events or the Tudors TV show. Thank you again, and please read and review!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fourteen: Some Kind of Happiness.<strong>

Elizabeth squinted into the broad morning sunshine as she worked the needle through the fine damask christening gown. The green and silver threads intertwined along the hem, and formed an intricate pattern in the Tudor colours that ran along the hems. Her sister, Catherine, watched her intently as her fingers worked nimbly with the needle.

"Are you not worried, sister?" She asked in a low voice, not wishing to be overheard by the other women in the Privy Chamber.

"Whatever for?" Elizabeth laughed a forced laugh. "The physicians were just being cautious. So long as I rest, and retire from Court early, then there will be little to worry about. The babe and I are perfectly healthy."

Elizabeth had already made up her mind. When the time for her confinement came, she would withdraw to the quietest Palace of the lot, and that was the Tower of London. A dismal Palace, that doubled as a fortress, but no one ever used it's Royal Apartments, and that guaranteed complete and uninterrupted rest.

"I am more worried about Henry," Elizabeth added, setting aside her needlework. "Since Princess Catherine recovered, and set out to return to London, he has got into a quarrel with King Ferdinand."

"About what?"

"The dowry, of course. Ferdinand demanded the first half back, despite the fact that Catherine's marriage to Arthur had gone ahead as planned. But, Henry has resolved it, I think. He plans to marry Catherine to Prince Henry, instead," Elizabeth explained. "I don't know the full details. Henry has been more … circumspect since Arthur died."

"He still grieves for Arthur, that's all," Catherine had noticed the changes in both of them, since Arthur had died. She looked on in silence, as Elizabeth ignored the risks to her health, and filled the void with another baby. "You both grieve, still. But Henry..." Her words trailed off as she struggled to phrase it properly. "Well, men usually do find it hard, don't they?"

"He never talks about it," Elizabeth admitted. "It's all the worse because I know he is thinking about it. The worries plague him, from dawn until dusk, and yet he says nothing because he doesn't want to worry me. But him not talking worries me more, and he doesn't see that."

Catherine reached over and squeezed Elizabeth's hand. There was little she could say or do, and had to reconcile herself to standing at the sidelines, watching as Henry and Elizabeth made their own way through the maze of emotions they were currently lost in.

Catherine had been shocked, and yet unsurprised by Elizabeth's latest pregnancy. She could understand any mother who tried to fill the void left by one child, with another. But, inevitability of failure weighed cold and grim on her heart. Catherine took in Elizabeth's swollen belly, her body already contorted according to the needs of the growing babe, already. In the past, at times like this, she would turn cartwheels. Now, her throat closed with fear, and her heart palpitated.

"Perhaps you should rest now?"

"I am fine, sister," Elizabeth tried to reassure her. "Will you please stop worrying. You're worse than Henry!"

" It is only because we both love you, and we're both worried for you," Catherine responded tartly.

Elizabeth sighed deeply as she got to her feet and paced over to the window. Her face was turned away, to hide the tears that stung her eyes. Catherine dismissed the other ladies from the Privy Chamber, for the sake of privacy. Once they were alone, Catherine approached Elizabeth at her place by the windows, looking out over the lake in the Palace grounds.

"Where do you think the swans go?" Elizabeth asked, her voice tremulous with the tears she still wept. "They've taken their cygnets, and flown away."

"To somewhere safer," Catherine answered, nonplussed at the question. "I mean, thats what we spend our whole lives looking for, isn't it? Somewhere safer, somewhere better."

Elizabeth turned back from the window, and scrutinised Catherine's face.

"Was it so wrong of me, to want something good to come of Arthur's death?" She asked plaintively. "To try and create some kind of happiness? Because, that is what I have spent my whole life looking for. Just, some kind of happiness."

"You don't look too happy, now?" Catherine replied. "You look older, you look scared. You look worn out."

"I am all of those things. But this," She ran the flat of her hands over her bump. "This will heal us all. Just wait and see."

It was more than a baby. It was a promise of something better. It was a last, desperate hope. It was all Elizabeth had left to cling to, and Catherine couldn't find it in her heart to take that away from her. The two women sat back down to their wine, and their needlework. They stitched at the garments, and worked the patterns. They bided their time, and played the waiting game all over again.

* * *

><p>"I'll be forty six, when this baby is born."<p>

King Henry didn't sound happy as he spoke. He caught his reflection in the looking glass, and saw clearly that he was showing the pressures, and the innumerable strains of a lifetime more than ever. His hair was greying, he was growing old. He thought that he could limp on for another ten years, if he was lucky, but he kept those thoughts to himself.

"Given that Elizabeth will be thirty six, you ought to be more worried about that," Margaret Beaufort replied pointedly as she snapped her psalter shut and dropped it in her lap. Elizabeth had just left the room, to attend to some needs, and Margaret was keen to raise the issue in her absence.

"Don't you think I am?" He snapped more harshly than he meant to. But, these days, he found himself becoming increasingly sensitive to criticism. Deep down, he knew he had failed to protect his wife, and his son. The last thing he needed, was people pointing it out to him.

"Don't be like that, Henry," Margaret chided him gently. "All I am saying is, I am worried for her. Why, of all places, is she insisting upon going to the Tower for her confinement? It's the most miserable place on earth."

"She told me it was for peace and quiet," Henry explained as he sat back down at Margaret's side. She had her hunting hounds stretched out on the rug at her feet, basking in the warmth of the fire. He watched them, as their tongues lolled and dribbled into the expensive weave. She really ought to have kennels for the brutes. "She is the Queen, so may do as she will, especially if it makes her comfortable."

"I wish that she would come here, to Baynard's Castle," Margaret gestured to the room. "It's not as if I throw all night parties every other night of the week-"

"Thats' not what I heard."

"Oh, Henry!"

"Who's throwing all night parties, and why have we not been invited?" Elizabeth pushed open the door to the Solar of Baynard's Castle and resumed her seat, stretching out her legs luxuriously. She clicked her fingers to one of the lolling dogs, trying to catch it's attention.

"Henry's trying to be funny, again," Margaret informed her sadly.

"Oh dear," Elizabeth sighed, scratching the hound's ears.

"Quite."

"You could be throwing all night parties, for all I know," Henry insisted. "Anyway, it made the two of you smile again."

They fell into a companionable silence as the dusk settled on Elizabeth's last day before entering her confinement. The two of them had stopped at Baynard's Castle so Elizabeth could rest there over night, before completing the journey to London.

"Is Princess Catherine settling in at Durham House?" Margaret finally asked.

"Oh yes, she visits us regularly at Court, isn't that right Henry?" Elizabeth brightened up at the mention of Catherine. She had become fond of her daughter in law, and the diplomatic row she could feel brewing up around the girl had begun to worry her.

"As soon as she is betrothed to Prince Henry, we'll all be happy," Henry replied. "Has anyone asked the Princess if she and Arthur consummated the marriage?"

All three of them looked at each other expectantly. "I can't very well do it," Henry protested. "It would sound awful coming from me!"

"Very well," Margaret sighed as she gave a limp, wave of her hand. "Leave it to me. I shall return to Court on the morrow, and we can start to work it out then."

Elizabeth reclined further in her seat, and tried to ease the discomfort in her lower back. The babe grew heavier, but sat like a dead weight in her belly. Rarely moving, but slowly turning as it was somehow pushed downwards. For once, the rest and solitude of the confinement chamber appealed to Queen Elizabeth greatly.

* * *

><p>None of Elizabeth's children arrived when expected, and this was no exception. The pains of her labour began in the early hours of a cold, late January morning. At first, she lay back against the mattress, and massaged the dull aches that crept up her abdomen. She slowly paced the floor of the chamber, counting how many steps she took between each cramp.<p>

Her sister, Catherine, followed her progress every step of the way, keeping her own count. But, the hours passed by at the speed of a snail, and nothing happened. Cramps, and nothing more. Midwives bustled in and out of the Queen's chambers, inspected her as discreetly, and as sensitively as they could, shook their heads, and walked away.

King Henry arrived at the Tower on the morning of the first of February, only to be greeted by Lady Catherine bearing the news that the labour had still not progressed. They prayed together in the small chapel in the Martin Tower. Side by side, they knelt into the afternoon, repeating catechism, and prayer after prayer. The only answer they got, where the Queen's first cries of pain as her labour finally shifted into next stage.

King Henry was left pacing the chapel as Catherine ran up the narrow, twisting stairwells to the Queen's apartments. She cried out for the nurses, midwives, and physicians at the top of her lungs. After almost two days of endless pacing, and very little sleep, Elizabeth was already over tired, and God alone knew just how badly the Queen would be needing all the help she could get.

The midwife spoke with a physician in a hushed voice just beyond the doors of the confinement chamber. Their faces were ashen, and there voices inaudible. There private conversation ceased the moment they saw Catherine appear at the top of the stairwell.

"How is she?" Catherine panted, her gaze darted frantically from one to the other. Neither could quite meet her eye.

"Perhaps you ought to go inside," The midwife finally replied. "The Queen has been asking for you."

Not wanting to waste any more time, Catherine entered the chamber where Elizabeth lay flat against the bed. Her hair lay stuck to her head as the sweat had begun to run down her face, despite the freezing cold. The fire was lit, and blazed in the open hearth, but did little to relieve the winter that crept into the Tower, through the cracks in the ancient sandstone walls, as though they were not there at all.

"Catherine," Elizabeth's voice was feeble, and her breath came in short rasps, but she smiled all the same. "Baby is finally coming."

"Excellent!" Catherine replied breezily, immediately pushing her fears and concerns to the furthest reaches of her mind. Whatever is about to happen, now is not the time to fret on it. If Elizabeth is to stand a chance, then they must all work together to push this labour along as quickly as possible. Catherine pulled down one of the ropes that hung from the bed. "Keep this in your hands, and pull as hard as you can when the contractions come. You know what to do, and I'll be here for every moment of it."

Elizabeth nodded as assertively as she could manage. She could feel the strength ebbing from her body, and she could feel the contractions tearing through her more acutely than before. But, as with Catherine, her mind fell sharply into focus on the end result of her ordeal. The babe in her arms.

King Henry paced the Great Hall of the Martin Tower, the floor below the Queen's birthing chamber. He watched the sun rise, tracked it's progress by the length of the shadows, and he watched it set again. All through the day, he winced as Elizabeth's screams permeated from the room above, and split the air. He tried to read the pitch for clues of how the labour was progressing, but gave up after his imagination led him astray.

Every so often, his Councillors would appear, and appeal to him to return to the Palace. He sent each one packing, before ordering Council to meet at the Tower, instead. They could all come to him, on this occasion. Margaret Beaufort arrived at the Tower shortly after nightfall. She was followed in by her chaplain, and a small number of serving women who hovered discreetly in the shadows of the cavernous chamber. She didn't say much, but every time a scream pierced the air, everyone's eyes automatically shot up to the ceiling, as though they expected to be able to see through it.

"She's getting the best possible care," Margaret tried to reassure him, and placed a comforting hand on his elbow. He turned to look into her wizened old face that peered out from within the folds of a nun's habit, and felt his face flush red. As another of Elizabeth's muffled screams filled the air, he realised that he wanted his mother to hold him. Partly through shame, but mostly through shame, his eyes welled with tears that burned.

"I know," He choked as he turned to face the window again. He could only see blurry torch flames in the distance, and little else besides, but he wanted to hide the extent of his pain from his mother.

"Henry," Margaret's voice was tremulous. "Look at me."

The door of the chamber opened with a crash as it slammed into the wall behind it, and Lady Catherine stood in the archway. Her face was drawn, and pale. Her plain white gown was stained with blood, and she seemed to sag under an invisible weight. She stepped cautiously over the threshold.

"Your Grace," She tried to curtsey. "The Queen has delivered a Princess."

"How is the Queen?" Henry asked. His whole body had gone numb. He didn't care what gender the baby was. All of his thoughts, and all of his fears, were fixed on his wife. The woman he had loved with a passion he hitherto thought impossible from the moment he met her.

"She is …" Catherine broke off and melted into silence as she struggled for the right words.

"I must see her!"

"Henry! No!" Margaret's voice called out after him as he practically ran from the room to the stairwell that led into the Queen's chamber. He ignored his mother, and side stepped Lady Catherine, who followed him with her hands trailing the walls for support.

"Wait outside, please," Henry instructed Catherine as he paused outside the Queen's door.

Elizabeth was asleep when he entered. Women hastily tried to hide the blood stained sheets as he passed, but it was too late. He saw them, along with the bloodied night shifts that were Elizabeth's, too. He looked across the dimly lit room again, to where she lay at rest. Her breathing was shallow, and her skin was like old candle wax. Her brow was beaded with sweat, and her cracked, white lips were parted to allow her ragged breathing.

He knelt down at her bedside, and ignored the women who bustled about like angry bees, trying to get the chamber cleaned out. Once they had gone, a midwife entered the room, with a tiny bundle of clean sheets in her arms.

"Your Grace," She spoke so softly that it took Henry a moment to realise that she'd addressed him. He looked up into her kindly, pale face. "Your daughter, the Princess."

Henry took the tiny infant from the midwife, and sat back against the wall with her cradled in his arms. He watched as she struggled to suck in the air. He watched her tiny, stick like limbs thrashing against the blankets she was wrapped in. Here was the Queen's last hope.

He waited until the midwife had gone. Then, he drew up his knees, and balanced the child there so he could see her properly. But soon, tears were coursing down his face. He loved the child. Another little piece of his and Elizabeth's soul. Another small, scrap of humanity that they had made. But his tears were for the loss that was waiting to happen.

Henry wiped his tears dry on his sleeve, and started tucking in the edges of the swaddling blanket to keep her warm in the chilly room. He made sure they were tight, to block out any sudden draughts.

"We'll call you Katherine," He whispered as he kissed her nose. "Princess Katherine."

Her eyes were screwed shut, even though her noiseless mouth flapped open and closed. She couldn't utter so much as a single cry. Henry got to his feet, and paced the Chamber with the baby in his arms. His tears dripped onto her forehead with little soundless splashes.

"Henry."

Elizabeth's voice was hoarse from screaming through the long labour. Henry spun on his heels to face her, unaware that she had even woken up.

"Did I disturb you?" He asked as he strode back to the bedside. She shook her head.

"How are you?" He asked, his brow creased in concern. She made no attempt to move, but all the same, she would grimace with pain.

"It will be all right," She whispered. Her eyelids drooped, and the effort of talking had made her breathless. Exhausted further, despite being completely still.

"Isn't she beautiful," Henry said as he held Princess Katherine up so that Elizabeth could see her.

A choking sound came from deep within Elizabeth's throat, and her body convulsed with tears that she was now too weak to shed. She tried to hold out her arms to her child, but the effort cost her too much. It was strength that she simply no longer had.

"I will be back in a moment," Henry whispered as he made for the door. Outside, he found Lady Catherine waiting for him.

"Take the Princess back to her wet nurse. Then you must fetch the Archbishop of Canterbury, we need to perform the Christening as soon as possible."

Catherine ducked a brief curtsey, and carefully took the child in her arms and turned to walk down the stairs. Henry watched her go, his eyes on the infant over her shoulder.

Elizabeth was asleep again, when he returned to her side. He looked at her closely, her face pale against the crisp white pillow slips. Her breathing seemed to even itself out, and he took her hand in his.

All through the night, he sat at her side. He brushed the loose hair from her face, and mopped her brow with a cold, wet linen cloth. He gripped her hands, and checked her pulse. He knew that if only she could make it through the night, that she would be all right. That she could be in with a fighting chance.

Her eyelids fluttered open at dawn. She looked up at him with her clear grey eyes, and managed a smile.

"My love," He whispered a kiss against her burning brow. "How are you feeling?"

"All right," She whispered back at him. She was still so weak and pale. Still unable to raise herself. "Almost happy."

He looked back at her, and kissed her again.


	15. Still Life Epilogue

**Author's Note:** Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, I really appreciate all of the feedback I get, so thank you. As ever, I own none of the characters, events or the history. Please read and review, thank you!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Fifteen: Still LifeEpilogue.**

The Archbishop's news came as no surprise to King Henry. He absorbed the impact of the latest body blow with a brave face, and a grim sense of the inevitable. Princess Katherine had died four days after her birth. Her short life had been spent curled up alone in her cradle, as her parents looked on helplessly as death slowly took her. He had been too scared to hold her, too scared to get close to her, because there is only so much grief and loss a man can take.

Henry dismissed the Archbishop, only to have him replaced by a hand wringing physician with a face a like condemned man. He sunk into a low bow, like he was trying to kiss the flagstones without bending his knees, as he approached the King.

"Your Grace, the Queen grows weaker," His voice was sombre, his face stricken. "We have done all we can."

"Then do it all again," Henry commanded as he slumped further in his chair, massaging the ache between his eyes. "Just save her."

The physician looked, for a moment, as though he were going to protest, or to try and reason with the King. But one look from Henry silenced the man, and he bowed out of the chamber, still wringing his hands.

Alone again, Henry screwed his eyes shut but let the tears leak out anyway. Since the birth, Elizabeth weakened, and rallied, but then weakened again as the fever took hold of her. All the while, he paced the Tower of London, waiting for news. All of his duties were delegated to whoever was free, the laws and the realm could wait for him, for once.

A few days after Princess Katherine died, the children were brought by barge to the Tower by their grandmother. They lined up quietly outside their mother's chamber, as each waited their turn to be ushered inside to kiss their mother goodbye, and whisper their final farewells softly in her ear as she slipped further and further away. Henry watched them in the adjacent ante chamber, not wanting to intrude on their final moments with Elizabeth, but watching fearfully for their reactions.

"She is going to die. You realise that, don't you?" Margaret Beaufort spoke softly so the children could not hear. "You must be prepared for it, Henry."

He didn't reply, and kept his attention fixed on his children who prayed at Elizabeth's bedside. Masses for her soul. Prayers for her safe passage to the angels. God rest her soul. Amen.

"If she wakes again, tell her nothing of Katherine. She doesn't need to know that," Margaret advised.

"For goodness sake, mother, I am not heartless!" Henry hissed back at her. "Take the children and go."

"But Henry-"

"Leave!"

Margaret's brow creased into a frown, but nonetheless, she walked back into the main chamber, and ushered the children away. Elizabeth slept on, oblivious to it all. Henry watched, numb with grief, as his world continued to crumble.

Once he was alone with his wife, he sat beside her in a rickety wooden chair, and covered her hand with his own. Elizabeth feebly stirred as he kissed her forehead, but she did not wake. Nothing more than a soft moan could escape her lips, and her body was completely still. Only the shallow rise and fall of her chest betrayed her beating heart.

"Elizabeth," He breathed her name into her ear as he leant in close to talk to her. "Elizabeth, please … if you can hear me …"

He felt foolish, and his words failed him, just when he needed his grip on the English language more than ever before. But as the hot tears burned his eyes again, a rush of memories from long ago flooded his mind, memories he wanted to share with her one more time before she left him for ever.

"I remember the first time I saw you. You were with your mother, in the procession when I returned to London after Bosworth. All I could see was the top of your head, and when I raised you up, the first time you looked at me and I saw you you properly; it felt like being hit by lightning. And every time you have looked at me since, it's always felt the same. From that day, I knew that everything would be just fine, because I had you at my side."

As the past relived itself in his mind, King Henry made no effort to stem the flow of his tears. Elizabeth muttered in her sleep, and he thought that she even opened her eyes, and whispered his name. So, he carried on talking to her, long in to the night. If only love alone was enough to save a person.

As the dawn broke on Elizabeth's thirty seventh birthday, Henry could clearly see that the rise and fall of her chest was slowing. He felt her pulse, and found barely a trace. He tilted her beautiful face towards him, and kissed her lips for what he knew would be the final time.

"You are my heart, my soul, my everything," He whispered in her ear again, one final secret between two lovers. "You always will be."

And she was gone.

* * *

><p>They banged on the door of the Privy Chamber, again. But, Henry continued to ignore them. He pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head, and lay in heap on the floor of the Privy Chamber. He wiped his tears on his sleeve, and covered his ears as his Councillors bellowed at him through the locked doors.<p>

"Your Grace, please, open the door!" The Archbishop of Canterbury shouted. "We just want to see that you are well."

Let them stew, Henry thought to himself as he clamped his hands harder over his ears and the tears continued to drip down his long nose. Finally, they all gave up on him again. Henry scurried over to the door, and listened to their footsteps receding down the stone passageway outside the door, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. Now that they were gone, he could get back to work on his plans for the Chapel.

He pulled the room's one remaining candelabra across the floor to his desk, and plunged the remainder of the room into complete darkness. He poured himself more wine, and looked over the design one more time. He picked up his pen, and made alterations here and there, adding in what he wanted, to his own specific requirements.

For days, he'd been scratching at these plans. He didn't want this Chapel to be just another Chapel, because it was for her. For Elizabeth. He wanted it to be a living, breathing monument to her, where together they would rest in peace for all eternity. He downed his wine, and ignored his spinning head as he focussed every ounce of his love, grief, and loss into his grand designs.

* * *

><p>"Well, what do you think, Your Grace?" Lady Catherine asked the King as they stepped inside the Lady Chapel for the first time.<p>

Together, they stood in the centre aisle of the newly completed Chapel, and walked around in a circle, taking in every inch of space, and every fine detail. They looked up, high above their heads at the stunningly detailed pendant shaped, fan vaulted ceiling that arched endlessly above their heads. It seemed to capture, and hold, the very light as it spilled in through the vast stained glass windows that were set in great bays along each wall. The buttresses, and columns soared upwards, seemingly up to the heavens themselves. The stalls were panelled with hand crafted, finely detailed misercordia depicting saints, mythical beasts and scenes of domesticity. The very essence of life was depicted here, from the insignificant, to the grand, and brought to life for the whole of the realm to see.

For the first time in a long time, King Henry smiled as he took in the whole space. This Chapel, built in honour of Queen Elizabeth, was a whisper of God. As he breathed in the cool, dusty air, he savoured the light that pooled down, showering them in a riot of colour. In the vast, grandeur of the structure, he tried to imagine the countless generations of feet that would walk through those doors, and stand beneath that same spectacular ceiling, and let themselves be bathed in the same heavenly light as he was at that moment. It was all beyond one mind.

Henry, with an awestruck Catherine at his side, moved through the space and came to rest at the magnificent bronze tomb. Elizabeth. Alone for now. Her features lovingly wrought into her effigy, now she lay at peace in the sacred Abbey, where one day, Henry knew he would join her. Together, they would lie oblivious to the ever changing world around them. Their love for each other, frozen in time.

Because, where there is still life, there is still hope for a better future. And Henry knows, no matter how much he still loves Elizabeth, and Arthur, and Princess Katherine, and all the others he has mourned; the world will carry on. But this, this monument will stand for centuries to come. It will be their legacy, even when their names are nought but the faintest of traces on the pages of history.

"I think Elizabeth would have approved of this," Henry finally answered Catherine's question with a renewed flourish of confidence.

Author's Note: Thank you, once again, to everyone who has read, and reviewed this story. I hope everyone enjoyed it, as I know I enjoyed writing it. Thank you, once again!


End file.
